Losing Days
by GhostGenocide
Summary: Just when they were set to go back to South Park to prepare for their wedding, Stan decided that he needed to do some soul searching for a bit. Kyle wouldn't have minded so much if he didn't have to deal with his mother constantly pitying him for coming back all alone. Meanwhile, Craig would do just about anything to get the hell out of that town.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Ever wanted a super angsty Cryle fanfic where Kyle bribes Craig to pretend to be Stan? No? Well, too bad, because this is a thing now.

With that said, I hope that you enjoy it! Your feedback is always appreciated.

* * *

It was almost dark out when Kyle finally heard the front door unlock and the sound of heavy, tired footsteps.

"Stan? Is that you?"

No answer, aside from the familiar noise of shoes being kicked off and into the usual pile near the door. From his place hunched over a magazine at the island counter of their cozy Manhattan kitchen, Kyle peeked over his shoulder to see Stan emerge from the narrow entryway, soaked from head to toe.

"It's nuts out there," Stan complained as he shucked off his coat and tossed it over a barstool. He shook his head, sprinkling everything around him with rainwater, including Kyle. He laughed. "I feel like a dog."

"It wouldn't surprise me if you actually _were_ one," Kyle said with a huff, shielding his magazine. He sat up a bit more straight, preparing to give Stan a welcome-home kiss. "You're home late today. Is everything alright?"

"Oh. Yeah." Stan nodded, stealing a quick look at the magazine in Kyle's hand before making a beeline for the fridge. Kyle rolled his eyes and slumped back down in his seat. "Just had a lot of work to do. It's almost summer, so everyone wants to get their finances in order before going on vacation and everything, you know?"

"Ah, I understand," Kyle lied. He didn't have the slightest clue what Stan actually did as a junior investment banker for Goldman Sachs, but he pretended like he did because the last time Stan tried to explain his job to him, it sounded as if not even _Stan_ had an idea what he did for a living in that towering forty four-story building twelve blocks from home.

"How about you? Good day at work?"

"Very good, considering I had the day off," Kyle said with a grin. "And _since_ I had the day off, I've finally had some time to relax and go over some of the wedding plans. I think you'll want to hear about them." He waited for Stan to get the hint and turn around but Stan was far too occupied with shuffling through the contents of their almost-empty fridge. "Stan?"

"Huh?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

Stan pulled his head out of the fridge and turned to Kyle with a beer in hand. "You were talking?"

"Yes—about the _wedding._" Kyle slapped the back of his hand to the magazine, trying to show it to his more-than-oblivious fiancé. Photos of extravagant wedding cakes and decorations littered the page while messy handwritten notes lined the edges. "Have you finally thought about what kind of cake we should have? Because I've got a few ideas if not."

"I dunno."

"You don't know?"

Stan shrugged. "Is it really that important to figure out right now? I'm just—I'm _tired,_ Kyle. I'm not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood!" Kyle dropped the magazine on the counter. "The wedding's in less than two months and we still haven't decided on the color scheme, had invitations made, _or_ even looked into catering! If we keep putting things off we're not going to have any time _left!_"

Kyle watched Stan as he cracked open his beer with the edge of their marble counter and nearly chugged the whole thing before lazily falling back against the fridge. Stan mussed up his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. "I know, Kyle," he said.

"Then why don't you help me with these things? I'm not going to plan our wedding alone!"

"_Because,_ Kyle."

"I'm serious, Stan. If you're just going to get drunk again tonight and not help me, then—"

Stan guzzled the rest of his beer down and tossed the empty bottle into the trash, cutting Kyle off from his tangent before he could really get into it. "You know what? Maybe we should take a break," he suggested, throwing his hands up. He went to grab another beer, giving Kyle, who currently looked like a deer caught in headlights, ample time to soak in what had just came out of his mouth.

"Take a break?" Kyle asked, unsure whether or not he'd heard the man standing in front of him correctly. "_Please_ tell me you've had a few drinks before coming home, because there's no way in hell you could possibly be serious right now."

"Dude, I'm totally sober. Well, for now at least," Stan said with a chuckle. He cleared his throat. "But, no, I'm serious. I think it'd be good for us."

Kyle wasn't quite sure what Stan was talking about, but he was certain that something was definitely wrong with Stan. Or was there something wrong with _him?_ Or—

"Are you seeing someone else?" he suddenly blurted out. "Do they work with you? Do they know you're _engaged?_"

"What? No—!"

"They _don't_ know?"

"I mean no, there's nobody else!"

"Then why would you even suggest we take a break!" Kyle was practically shouting now. "Or was that supposed to be some sort of joke? Because let me tell you, Stan—that wasn't funny at all."

"I wasn't kidding," Stan said. Kyle crossed his arms over his chest expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. Stan sighed and palmed the back of his neck before dropping his shoulders in defeat and joining Kyle at the counter. "I'm being serious, Kyle. I've... I've actually been thinking about it for a little while now. Spending some time apart, I mean."

"Oh my God. You're actually serious!"

"Yeah? Like, I think we could both benefit from some much needed space, probably."

Kyle wanted to ask what Stan had meant exactly by "space," but all he could think about were the implications. As far as Kyle was aware, the two of them hardly spent any time together as it was with their hectic work schedules. While Stan's job kept him stuck at the office most of the day and often well into the evening, Kyle's had him holed up in his study at odd hours throughout the night, working on the stacks of civil case files that had once upon a time seemed to take over the spare corners of their tiny apartment until Kyle had managed to coax Stan to give up the spare bedroom turned exercise room in exchange for a Planet Fitness membership.

"Look, I understand if you're still nervous about everything, but we can't push the wedding back any further. We've already had to do it three times because you won't stop freaking out, and my mother is going to kill us if—"

"I'm not saying we have to reschedule!"

"Then what exactly do you suggest we do? Because if you haven't forgotten, _Stan,_ we're leaving for South Park tomorrow!"

"Well, I kind of have an idea."

"Oh, lord."

"Wait, just hear me out!" Stan said, putting his hands up. "What if you go back home... while I stay here?"

Kyle had officially reached his limit. "How stupid can you possibly be?"

"Wow. Rude?"

"You think _that's_ rude? Rude is suggesting that _I_ go back home for _our_ wedding alone, while _you_ stay here doing what-the-hell-ever it is you do at work, getting drunk and watching _The Price is Right!_"

"Hey, it's _Let's Make a Deal._ And I've got a lot of work to do, Kyle—"

"I don't care! I'm not getting married by myself!"

"Wait, what?" Stan asked. "You wouldn't be getting married by yourself, dude. I'd totally be there."

"You just told me to go back home alone!"

"You wouldn't be alone the whole time, though! I just meant for like, the first week or something," Stan clarified, then laughed. "How could I not show up to my own wedding?"

Though Kyle was relieved to hear that Stan wasn't planning on standing him up at the altar, he still wasn't too happy about the fact that Stan felt like the two of them needed some time apart—and just seven weeks before the big day, no less. "You really think this would be a good idea?" he asked.

"I think it'd be a great idea. You'd get total control over the wedding like you've always wanted, I'll be able to get started on this crazy massive project for work, and we'll both get some much needed alone time!" Stan assured him, sounding a bit too enthusiastic for Kyle's taste. "Besides, you know what they say. 'Distance makes the heart get stronger,' or something like that."

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder," Kyle mumbled under his breath and shook his head in disbelief. He never wanted total control over the wedding like Stan seemed to believe, and he definitely didn't need any space, either. "What 'crazy massive project' for work do you have to do?"

"Huh? Oh, I'm not really sure. I don't know the details yet. All I know is that it's supposed to be for a really important client and that they specifically requested for me to work with them. I'll find out Monday."

"You don't even know what the big deal is and you're willing to put it ahead of our wedding?"

"It's my first assignment that I'll actually be taking the lead on!" Stan said. "You should be excited for me, Kyle!"

Kyle sighed. "I _am _happy for you, Stan."

"No, excited!"

"Is there a difference?"

"Uh, yeah? We should be celebrating." Stan went to the fridge once more, grabbing his third beer in the past fifteen minutes. Kyle hoped silently it'd be his last; he'd intervene if not. "How does Chinese for dinner sound? That and Street Fighter. I'll help you finish packing later."

Though Kyle wasn't too happy about the recent turn of events, he couldn't say no to two of his favorite things. Besides, who knew; maybe after a fun evening in together, Stan would change his mind and decide to head home to South Park together like they'd originally planned.

Kyle smirked.

Maybe.

* * *

Or not.

Because while he'd been hopeful that perhaps letting Stan have an extra two or three or five beers would get him to warm up to the idea of coming along, Kyle forgot to factor in Stan's definitive next morning hangover from hell, and how peeling him off the couch would be next to near impossible unless it involved an all you can eat pasta buffet and aspirin. Needless to say, Kyle's idealistic romantic theory had totally backfired and he was forced to board the midday flight out of NYC and into Denver alone.

"Kyle! My bubbelah!" his mother had shouted and pulled him in for a hug worthy of breaking at least six of his ribs as soon as he'd stepped off the plane. He prayed that his laptop screen wasn't cracked.

"Hey, Ma."

"I'm so glad you're finally home! My goodness, you're so _thin_—have you eaten yet, today? You know you've got to eat often because—"

"Where's Dad? And Ike?"

"Oh, they're at home. They're so excited to see you, we shouldn't be wasting time standing around here! Let's go and pick up your bags so we can get going. I've still got to put dinner on!" Sheila said, urgently tugging at the strap of Kyle's messenger bag.

Kyle wasn't sure whether to be happy that his mother was so gung-ho about getting the hell out of that moldy airport or to dread the hour and a half car ride back to his childhood home with her and her impending game of twenty-one questions. Speaking of which, it was only a matter of time before—

"Wait, where's Stan? Shouldn't he be with you?"

_Goddammit._

He had to stay back. For work," Kyle said, feeding her the line he'd rehearsed the whole trip. Still, it didn't come out sounding nearly as nonchalant as he'd hoped it would, having a bit of a hostile kick to it. "He'll be here next week, though. He sends his love."

"How sweet!" She gushed, then continued to drag Kyle towards baggage claim. "It's a shame he couldn't come with you, Kyle. I was going to make a _wonderful_ brisket, but maybe I should hold off until he gets here for that. Why, I haven't seen that boy in so long, I can hardly remember what he looks like!" The cackle that followed after made Kyle and a few other passing folks jolt.

The walk to the car was spent in much-appreciated silence, and Kyle used those precious few minutes to get himself ready for the next wave of nosey, unavoidable questions.

"What has he been up to, anyway? Still working for that bank?"

"Goldman Sachs."

"Right! Right, that's what it was. Oh, put your seat belt on, Kyle. I don't want us to get pulled over. You wouldn't _believe_ how much the fines have gone up this past year!" Kyle nodded, not really caring. "But you're a lawyer! I'm sure you could get us out of a tight spot if need be. My handsome little man, just like his father."

"Ma, stop. _Please_." Kyle leaned away from Sheila's attempts at pinching his cheek. "I'm not a child anymore! You don't need to do that."

"You're right, you're right," Sheila said, and Kyle had to wonder if he'd actually just heard his mother agree with him on something for once in his life or if he was just having a very vivid fever dream. The latter seemed more likely. "You're a grown man now, who's gone off and started his new life in Vermont—"

"New York."

"And even though I'd rather you marry a nice Jewish girl and settle down here at home, I'm so proud that you've found yourself such a wonderful man to be with. And he makes a lot of money. What a catch!"

Kyle scoffed.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"He does make a lot, right?" Sheila pried.

"What does it even matter?"

"A mother needs to know that her son is well taken care of," she sang.

"I can take care of myself, Ma!" Kyle snapped. He seriously did not want to have this discussion. "I don't need Stan to do that!"

"Well. _Someone's_ a little touchy." Sheila sniffed. "Must be because a certain _fi-an-cé_ couldn't make it."

Kyle would have rather walked home. Or, actually, he would have rather walked back to South Park and got a hotel, because being back home again was turning out to be an absolute nightmare.

The house felt a lot more cramped than it had ever been. With Ike back home for the summer from art school, antagonizing his older brother seemed to be the only thing to keep him entertained. Then again, maybe Kyle could have started off their first conversation in nearly five months with something other than, "What do you mean you're back home for the summer? Why do you even get a summer break? What's so stressful about painting pictures?" Surely, Ike hadn't appreciated the condensation which he'd of had to have gotten from their parents enough already for even attending art school. Kyle really should've thought before opening his big mouth.

Then there was his father who was hardly around, which was to be expected since he _was_ South Park's only semi-competent lawyer; but there was definitely something up between his parents, because it seemed as if his father went out of his way to avoid his mother specifically. And what was up with all the cats? Kyle couldn't remember ever having cats growing up. Or the deadbolt on the basement door that locked from the inside.

The questions from his mother never seemed to end. From the moment they stepped foot into the house, all the way up until Kyle had excused himself early from dinner to go lie down, he was sure he'd managed to evade enough questions to fill an autobiography. Worst of all were the pity-filled comments that she seemed to feel were necessary to add in when Kyle wanted nothing more than for her to just shut up. Things like, "Oh, you'll be sleeping all alone without Stan! That's so sad," and, "Ike, don't be so mean to your brother right now! He's upset because Stan won't be here til next week. Have some sympathy!" She'd even told the waitress at the Waffle House the next afternoon, "We'd be ordering for three, but my poor son's fiancé can't be here right now. Shame, since their wedding is so soon! Why, Kyle, I hope he makes it on time!" That was when Kyle vowed to never leave the house again; at least not until Stan arrived and the two of them could get their own hotel room far, far away from his overbearing mother.

Kyle sighed and fell back onto his bed, eyeing the glow in the dark stick-on stars that still littered his ceiling in clusters from childhood. It was nearing day five, and cabin fever had set in long ago.

But that was alright, because it'd all be over soon. Just two more days and he'd be up in the nearest Holiday Inn, ordering room service and only having to subject himself to awkward family gatherings when it was absolutely necessary and with Stan there to keep him sane. There'd be no more of his mother's concerned glances fill with pity and worry that her son was actually forever alone.

Kyle felt his phone vibrate against his thigh.

**Hey dude. U still awake? - STAN**

Kyle grinned and rolled over to better situate himself so that he could respond back to his fiancé.

_It's only 6:30, of course I'm still awake. What're you up to? - KYLE_

**I forgot the time difference wasnt that bad. Nothing. Relaxing after work. Lot of it to catch up on - STAN**

_Yeah? Hopefully you can. I can't wait til you get here. My mom is driving me insane! - KYLE_

_How'd that big project for work turn out, by the way? - KYLE_

**U always say that about ur mom lol. Sorry. But yeah about that - STAN**

_About what? My mom? - KYLE_

**No work - STAN**

**I dont think i can make it out on monday - STAN**

_What do you mean? Why? - KYLE_

He waited to give Stan some time to type out the message that would surely say, **'Jk dude,'** or, **'Ill be coming earlier than that,'** but Kyle's resolve was beginning to crumble with every passing second. Before it had even been a full minute, he was calling Stan to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Hey—"

"What are you talking about? Why can't you come on Monday?"

"Um, hello to you too?"

Kyle rolled his eyes and pushed his hair back away from his forehead. "This isn't a joke, Stan! You said you'd be here on Monday—that was the agreement! You stay back for a week, then fly out to South Park to help plan the wedding and help me deal with my family!" He was shaking. The grip he had on his phone was so tight that it was a miracle it didn't shatter to pieces. "Hello? Stan?"

"I'm sorry, Kyle." Stan sighed. "But I just—I really can't."

"Why not?"

"It's that project I told you about. I haven't even met the client yet because they had to reschedule for next week, but I did at least get to learn a little about what I'll be working with. Actually, I've _been_ working on it. It's… a church organization, I guess? But not really? The dude who I'm supposed to meet with is apparently crazy loaded. Wants me to look at his portfolio and find some good opportunities to invest in, mostly stocks, I think." Stan laughed. "Can you imagine that? Being so rich that you can't even manage your own money? I wish—"

"I don't care, Stan!" Kyle snapped. "_Jesus_—I feel like you care more about this dumb client than you do about us!"

"What? No way, that's not true," Stan said. "It's just that this is my first actual assignment where I'm like, kind of in charge, and it's important to me, dude!"

"_We're_ important, _dude!_"

Stan paused. "Were you being sarcastic just then, because that definitely sounded like sarcasm. And, you know, it's kinda hard to tell when you're talking over the phone and there aren't any social cues, and—"

"So you seriously have to stay back for another week?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I'm sorry."

Kyle sighed and rolled over onto his back again. "It's whatever. It's not like I need you here right now, anyway. Dance rehearsals don't even start until three weeks from now."

"You're actually gonna go through with our first dance?"

Kyle could practically hear the grin in Stan's voice; it made him blush. "Only because you want to do it."

"It's tradition, dude! Who has a wedding without a first dance?"

"I'd be quite happy to be the first if that's the case. You know I hate dancing."

"Only because you can't." Stan laughed. "But hey! Who cares, right? It'll be fun!"

"Whatever." Kyle had to fight hard to keep from smiling like a love-struck idiot. He glanced over at his door, which he'd been sure to lock for obvious reasons. Five days was a long time to be alone, and it'd been even longer since the two of them had actually been intimate. Kyle gave his best attempt at sounding sultry. "So hey, what're you… you know."

"Huh? What am I what?"

"What are you _doing._"

What sounded like someone chewing gravel caught Kyle off guard. "Oh, just winding down for the day. Eating pretzels. Playing Battlefield. You?"

Stan was an idiot. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, dude. But I'll see you soon. Don't—_shit, fuck!_" There was a muted _thump_ on Stan's end, then a few more curses and some rustling. "Sorry, this jackass who's supposed to be on my team just shot me! Totally ruined my killstreak _and_ made me drop my phone. But anyway, like I was saying—don't worry about it so much, okay?"

Kyle sighed, staring up at those glow in the dark stars. He made a half-hearted wish on one that Stan would take a damn hint. "No, I mean I _miss _you," he said.

"Yeah, and I miss you too. Right now I especially miss how awesome of a team we make in Battlefield. Hey, actually, you still have an Xbox there, right?"

"But I _really_ miss you." Kyle was starting to feel exasperated. "Seriously, Stan. Do I have to spell it out for you or something?"

"What—Oh. Ohhhh."

"It's been tough having to be here all alone without you. And we didn't even get to say goodbye properly…" Kyle let his free hand wander down to his belt, toying with the buckle, waiting. "Knowing that I'll have to wait a whole extra week to see you sucks. But I mean, maybe since we're both free right now, we can make up for lost time?" Kyle cringed in embarrassment. He was never good at initiating phone sex, or just phone sex in general; but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Yeah, but—fuck, _again!?_—right now isn't really a good time. I'm just not in the mood, and like, you're back home and all I can think about is how Ike is totally in the next room over and how weird your mom is and this douchebag is seriously grinding my gears oh my _god _who let him have a controller!"

"Fucking incredible," Kyle mumbled as he rolled onto his side, officially having had it with Stan. No amount of phone sex was worth putting up with that. "Do you hear yourself right now? Are you even _aware_ of the fact that I'm hundreds of miles away and in _need?_"

Stan snorted.

"What?" Kyle snapped.

"Dude, Kyle. That sounded so gay."

"I hate you so much right now."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was just kidding, jeez. You know I love you."

"You're gay."

"Shit, I walked right into that one," Stan groaned as Kyle laughed. "Hey, I'm gonna go, alright? I'll call you tomorrow when I'm at the laundromat. Maybe uh, then we can. You know. Talk."

Kyle frowned at the fact that Stan was urging him off the phone so soon when they'd hardly talked that past week, though he felt a bit of nervous excitement bubble in the pit of his stomach at the proposal. However, while his dick had sort of been doing a lot of the thinking the past few minutes, Kyle wasn't completely blind to the hilarious image of Stan having whispered phone sex in a laundromat bathroom while wild, unattended children ran around screaming and college students utilized the free wifi just on the other side of the door.

"You're probably going to regret that suggestion. You know that, right?" Kyle asked with a devilish smirk.

"Probably. Definitely." Stan hesitated. "Actually, can we maybe—"

"Nope. You owe me."

"Dammit."

Ike pounded his fist against the shared wall between their bedrooms. "Can you keep it down? Nobody wants to hear you phone fuck your boyfriend!" Ike shouted, sounding like a disgruntled, angst-ridden sixteen year old. What was his problem? Kyle thought art school had really turned his little brother into a total dick.

"He's not my boyfriend, he's my fiancé!" Kyle shouted back. "And we're not phone fucking!"

"Ike?" Stan asked.

"Yeah." Kyle sighed. "He's just pissed at me all the time and I don't even know why. See, this is why I was totally against him going to the Art Institute—they're all a bunch of stuck up snobs there!"

"I heard that!"

"Good!"

"You sure you didn't, uh. Say something to upset him, maybe?" Stan asked cautiously.

"Are you kidding me? The wind can blow the wrong way and he'd be in a shitty mood."

"I'm serious," Stan laughed. "Alright, for real this time. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Fine. I guess I'll let you go. I've—got a lot of stuff to work on, anyway," Kyle lied. Sure, there was an abundance of preparations for the wedding to finish, but not anything that he could really work on alone at this point. "Love you, Stan."

"Love you, too. Goodnight."

"Good—"

Stan disconnected before he had a chance to finish.

Kyle pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands, letting out a long, frustrated breath. Now he was forced to stay hidden in his childhood bedroom for another week when he was already losing his mind and not even through with the first one. Not to mention—what would his mother say when she heard about this? Kyle couldn't handle any more pitiful comments. He didn't want to think about it.

He stood up and grabbed his boots.

He needed to get out of that house for a little while.

* * *

On the other side of town outside of an old, outdated movie theater, Craig Tucker sighed.

"The next one will be playing at seven-thirty," he repeated for what had to be the fourteenth time that hour, despite the show times being clearly listed on the board behind him. He felt like he was sixteen all over again, manning the ticket booth and having to deal with people's stupidity upfront and first-hand like he did for so many years before being rightfully promoted to his current title of theater manager.

Craig had thought that being in charge would mean never having to deal with dumb questions like those ever again, but apparently that wasn't the case. It actually just meant the added responsibility of having to pick up the slack when other employees called out sick, like tonight; and having to put up with customer complaints, all for a measly salary of just under thirty grand. Not nearly as much as he felt he deserved for having to put up with so much bullshit.

"Will there be anymore after the seven-thirty one?"

"Maybe. I dunno. Let me check." He made a show of turning around and looking up at the board. "Yup. Two more."

"What times?"

"Nine and eleven-thirty," Craig squeezed out between gritted teeth. After a few more grating questions about the current films that could've easily been answered if one were able and willing to just read, the man eventually bought a ticket and went inside, finally leaving Craig alone to his own devices.

Almost twenty minutes passed without another movie-goer to bother him, and Craig silently thanked the heavens for the peace and solitude. He took the time to drop to his knees and replace the ticket paper in the printer since it'd been running low for the past hour.

"Stupid printer," he grumbled to himself as he tore out the last of the remaining paper that had managed to get jammed. The last time he had to fix a jammed ticket printer was almost four years ago when he was twenty-two and actually worked the ticket booth before being promoted to assistant manager. Craig jerked the printer around a little harder upon the realization that he'd been doing this shitty job for four years. He ripped out the pieces of shredded paper that jammed the mechanisms inside and reloaded it with a fresh roll.

No, not four years. Longer than that. After all, he'd been working there since he was sixteen.

_Ten years._

"Dammit!" He pounded the printer with his fist and it whirred back to life, printing out a couple of test tickets. He sighed and hung his head, trying to calm down from the unwelcome memories.

This was only supposed to be a temporary job until he finished college; his life wasn't supposed to turn out like this. By now he should have been in California, producing some of the biggest films of his time while sharing a comfortable apartment with his dog, Charlie; not a twenty-six year old film school dropout and still stuck in South Park. All he had going for him was this stupid job-turned-career that he didn't want in the least.

While Craig mulled over his poor life decisions on the floor of the ticket booth, he was completely unaware of another person's looming presence waiting at the window above him. "Hey, is anyone in there?"

Startled, Craig slammed his head against the underside of the counter when he stood up a little too fast.

"Fuck! God dammit, I swear." He squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed his hand to his head, the pressure helping to mask the ache. He probably should've watched what came out of his mouth in front of customers, but at that particular moment in time, he couldn't give a—

"Craig?"

A chill ran up his spine. He forced himself to open his eyes, only to find the last person he'd ever expect to see standing on the other side of the glass, a few inches under six foot with flaming red curls and tired, dark green eyes. "What do you want, Broflovski," he snapped.

Kyle looked taken aback. "You're still here?"

Craig wasn't sure whether Kyle meant here as in South Park or here as in the movie theater. Either way, he didn't give him an answer since both would have been equally embarrassing. "What do you want, Broflovski," he repeated.

"You always were a charmer," Kyle muttered and scanned Craig up and down, as if he were judging him. Though Craig was doing his best to play it cool, his skin prickled all over out of sheer nervous anxiety, because seriously—what the hell was Kyle Broflovski doing back there? "I _want _to get the hell out of this shithole town, but that's not going to happen for a while. So I figured I'd at least go see a movie or something. I'm bored out of my mind."

Craig wanted to ask. He wanted to know what the point of Kyle coming back to South Park was if it was such a shithole, especially when he actually managed to leave. And from what he'd heard through the grapevine, AKA Kenny's loud ass mouth, Kyle was doing pretty well for himself. Instead though, Craig just stared at him, feigning disinterest; which was sort of hard to do when he hadn't seen Kyle in a little over eight years. It was crazy to see just how much—and how little, in some cases—he'd changed.

"So, any movie suggestions?"

"I can suggest that you go away," Craig said without missing a beat. He was certain those three idiots would be out of his life for good eight years ago, and he had no intentions of dealing with any of them ever again; especially not _this_ one.

"What the hell, Craig? What's your problem? I thought we were on good terms the last time we hung out," Kyle snapped defensively. "It's not my fault you're still stuck working here, so don't take it out on me. I've got enough shit to put up with."

The last time they 'hung out' was the summer road trip to Disney World that their two groups had taken together after high school, and even then the two of them hardly spoke one-on-one because Kyle always had his head up Stan's ass.

Craig's stomach suddenly dropped at the thought of that fumbling idiot, because if Kyle was here, that had to mean that Stan was, too.

"Wow. Must be tough. Now buy a ticket or leave."

"I know you're just being an asshole, but yeah, things _are _tough right now. Especially since I have nobody to talk to. I'm stuck at my parent's house for two weeks with nobody else but my obnoxious family because fucking _Stan _decided to bail on me last minute and—"

"I don't care."

"You _should_ care!"

"Well I don't. I don't care, and I don't want to be roped into your brand of crazy ever again. Things have been nice and quiet without you guys to stir up shit around here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way." It's the most he's ever said to him in nearly a decade, and they're nothing close to the words he'd rehearsed over and over in the hotel bathroom before heading out to Magic Kingdom for the fireworks show.

He'd sort of expected for Kyle to either (a) continue his shit fit, or (b) storm off in the opposite direction after that, but Kyle wasn't angry. Or at least, it didn't _seem _like he was. Kyle was looking at him with knitted brows and curious green eyes, as if he were deep in thought.

"What."

Kyle ran a hand through his hair, the other on his hip.

"Holy shit." He scoffed. "You look just like him."

"What."

"Okay, so not _exactly _like him, but like—I think this could maybe work."

"_What."_

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Craig hesitated. He didn't know how to answer that, because he was 99.6% certain that this wasn't about making dinner reservations and definitely about tricking him into some crazy ass scheme that Kyle had just came up with on the spot.

"That depends."

"On?"

"How much you're paying me."

"How much would it cost for you to come have dinner at my parent's house?"

Craig wasn't actually being serious about the whole paying him thing, but apparently Kyle thought otherwise.

"What."

"I'll pay you to come have dinner tomorrow night at my place," Kyle explained. "I… I need you to pretend to be Stan."

Oh, hell no.

"Fuck off, Broflovski." It was Craig's turn to snap that time, his usual cold and unamused demeanor cracking to show hints of actual disgust and anger. And to think, a small part of him actually thought Kyle wanted to hang out.

"Wait, listen. Just hear me out." Kyle put his hands up, as if that'd help make Craig feel more amiable towards the idea of being a stand in for that moron. It didn't. But because Craig didn't hate Kyle nearly as much as he hated Stan, he at least decided to listen to his plea.

"I know it's completely out of left field, and I know it's awkward as fuck, but I really need you to come over for dinner tomorrow and just pretend to be Stan. Seriously, I wouldn't be asking you of all people to do something like this if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but it is." Kyle paused. Craig lifted a brow, growing impatient. "You see, Stan and I are getting married in a few weeks, and he was supposed to come back here with me to get things set up for the wedding, but his job sort of ended up needing him to stay, and my mom won't stop looking at me like some wounded fucking puppy because Stan can't be here right now, and he won't be for another week, and—"

Craig cut him off before he'd go blue in the face.

"So you want me to pretend to be your stupid fiancé because you hate people feeling sorry for you."

"Hey, that's not—!" Kyle stopped. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly heated, but nothing came out. Craig knew he must've hit a nerve. After a second or two spent chewing his lip, Kyle finally sighed in resignation. "Sort of," he admitted. "But was all that really necessary?"

"That's stupid," Craig said, but still mulled over the idea for a few moments in his head. Here Kyle was, practically _begging _him to play out his sick sixteen year old self's fantasy, except it most likely wasn't going to end the way it did back in his daydreams during history class; and sure, Kyle just popping up out of nowhere really threw him off guard in the absolute worst way; but maybe if he were to actually get something out of it, standing in as Stan wouldn't be so bad. After all, Kenny _did_ say that Kyle had been doing pretty well for himself.

"What do you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"For a job. What do you do."

"Oh. Um, I'm a civil attorney. Why?"

"Give me five-thousand dollars and I'll do it."

"What!" Kyle gaped. "No way, that's ridiculous!"

Craig shrugged. "Bye."

"Like, a couple hundred dollars, sure… but five-thousand? C'mon, dude. That's just insane."

"I said bye."

"What the hell would you even need that kind of money for, anyway? The cost of living here isn't _that _high!"

"It is in California."

"Is that what you're planning to do with it? Go to California?"

Craig didn't answer. He'd been trying to get out to California since he'd graduated high school, but the cards just never seemed to be in his favor. Even Kenny had managed to make his way out to the west coast before him, leaving him to suffer in South Park alone with only Clyde and Tweek to share his misery. Except not really, because Clyde couldn't care less as long as his best friend was around, and Tweek would be a neurotic mess no matter where he lived. But with an extra five-thousand dollars added on top of what he'd already had saved up, Craig could finally ditch that shitty town for good.

"Like I said, Broflovski. Take it or leave it."

"Fine," Kyle grumbled. "But for five-grand, you're gonna help me out for the next week until Stan gets here. There's no way I'm paying you that much just so you can come over, stuff your face, and leave."

Craig didn't argue. He could manage to deal with Kyle and his bullshit for a week if it meant that he'd finally have a one way ticket to Pacific Beach by the end of the summer.

"Deal."

"Good. Great." Kyle sighed in relief. "Okay, you know where I live, right?"

Craig nodded.

"Be there at six o'clock sharp, alright? In the evening. Don't try to be a smartass and show up before the sun's even out," Kyle said.

"Whatever, I got it. Now leave."

"You're going to actually have to be nice to me around my family. Stan doesn't tell me to _leave_."

"You're lucky if I even show up at this point."

"And for Christ's sake, please dress at least semi-decent, alright? I usually help Stan pick out his clothes so he always looks nice, but…" He nodded at the theater uniform Craig was wearing. Craig wondered if Kyle was seriously dumb enough to think that he'd chosen to wear that cheesy getup willingly.

Beyond through with their conversation, Craig ripped a random ticket from the reel and thrust it out the window at Kyle.

"Enjoy your movie. Now go away."

Kyle began to say something, but Craig's piercing blue eyes must've made him second guess his decision. Instead, he took the ticket and made his way for the theater doors, where he lingered around for a bit, stealing one last hesitant glance back at the ticket counter, before finally disappearing inside.

Craig wondered if Kyle had suddenly realized just how terrible of an idea this half-baked plan of his actually was and just how easily it could backfire; because it _was_ terrible, and it _could_ backfire. Badly. Hell, it probably _would_. Craig already knew this wasn't going to end well, but he would have never expected for Kyle to willingly play along with, let alone _orchestrate,_ such an idiotic scheme.

Craig shook his head and scoffed.

And he'd always thought that Kyle was the smart one.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad you guys like the story so far. I love reading your feedback and thoughts!

* * *

The next evening came quicker than anticipated, and while his family had all sat down to pray before digging into their Sunday dinner, Kyle was nervously pacing the hall.

Craig was late.

It was already a quarter past six and that dead-eyed asshole was nowhere to be found. Kyle was mentally kicking himself. What had he been thinking? He should have never trusted Craig! Still, he checked his wrist every thirty seconds despite knowing good and well that there was no point.

Five more minutes passed and Kyle figured he'd rather admit defeat before his food got cold.

He was two steps into the dining room when the doorbell rang, followed by the sound of heavy pounding at the door and Ike shouting that he "wasn't there" if it were the cops. Before Sheila even had a chance to jump down Ike's throat and interrogate him over why the cops would be there and what on earth they'd want with him, Kyle was already putting his experience as the head of his college track team to use.

"Wait! I'm coming!" he shouted when the doorbell rang again after just a few seconds. He fumbled with the locks and threw the door open, almost whacking himself in the forehead in the process. He needed to calm down and relax before he seriously got hurt, but his thoughts were so scattered that he was having a hard enough time remembering to even _breathe_ at the moment.

"Took you long enough," Craig said, expressionless. Both hands were stuffed in the pockets of his fitted black trousers, otherwise Kyle was sure he'd of been greeted with two middle fingers.

It was strange, seeing Craig without his trademark blue chullo hat. Then again, Kyle was pretty sure he'd ditched that raggedy old thing sometime during high school, but he couldn't remember. Stranger though was seeing Craig even somewhat dressed up. Not exactly what Kyle would call classy, but Craig looked, well… good.

Yeah. That's the word he was looking for.

Good.

"You're late," Kyle hissed, keeping his voice low. Craig shrugged. The leather jacket-hoodie combo he was wearing made his shoulders look broader than they actually were, and it made Kyle's cheeks warm up at the thought of Stan.

"Are you gonna let me in or what."

Kyle huffed, stepping out of the way so that Craig could come in. He dragged his dirty, worn mustard yellow Converse across the doormat before entering. Kyle was amazed to see that Craig had even an ounce of civilized manner in him.

"What's for dinner."

"I'm surprised—you actually clean up alright. I was worried you'd wear that hideous bow tie from the theater," Kyle said, ignoring his question. "But what's with all the black? You kinda look like you're going to a funeral."

"You said to dress nice. This is me dressing nice."

"Yeah, but would it have killed you to add just a bit more color?"_ And some new shoes, because those look like they should've been thrown out after high school, _Kyle thought.

Craig unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off to reveal a dark blue cardigan, buttoned up over what seemed to be just a plain heather grey t-shirt. Casual, but with some sort of effort put forth.

"It's the only dress shirt I've got."

"Not exactly what I'd consider a dress shirt rather than something that should go _over_ one, but…" Kyle pointed out as he scanned him from head to toe, looking for anything that would give him away. "Come here."

Craig didn't break eye contact as Kyle closed the distance between them. He kept his head held high when Kyle reached for his hair, mussing it up and combing his fingers down through so that it'd fall limply over his forehead rather than being swept messily to the left and out of the way.

"What are you doing."

"Fixing your hair. Stan doesn't wear it like that. What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're touching me. I never said you could touch me."

"If I'm paying you five-thousand dollars I can do whatever the hell I _want_ to you," Kyle mused without thinking. The way Craig's shoulders squared themselves went unnoticed. "There. Perfect."

Craig scowled. "I feel like an idiot."

"Yeah, well. Suck it up."

"Kyle, who is it? Who's at the door!" Sheila shouted.

"_Shit,_" Kyle panicked under his breath. He looked at Craig, giving him a once over again to make sure he didn't miss anything. "Okay, alright. Alright, this is it. You've gotta—don't fuck this up, okay? Because I swear—Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Craig! Are you kidding me?"

"What."

"What do you mean _'what.'_ Those stupid piercings are what!" Kyle complained, an open palm extended towards Craig's face. "Are you _trying_ to make a bad impression?"

"You didn't say anything about them last night."

Kyle hadn't of noticed then. "Yeah, well, take them out!"

Craig rolled his eyes as he fumbled to remove the ring from his bottom lip. "I'll take this one out, but I'm not touching the other ones. The holes close up too fast."

"Fine," Kyle said, taking note of the small plugs in Craig's ears. They were so tiny that maybe, just maybe, his mother—who continued to shout from the other room—wouldn't notice them. "Do you have any tattoos that aren't covered?"

"I don't have any. Why."

Kyle shook his head and grabbed Craig's arm, pulling him towards the dining room. "It's a Jewish thing. We're not allowed to have piercings or tattoos, and my mom is really strict on that shit. But don't worry about it. Now come on."

"Is that why you don't have any?"

"Who said I didn't have any?" Kyle snapped. He didn't appreciate the tone in which Craig had asked; as if he needed his mother's approval or something. "Either way, it's none of your business."

Craig just blinked.

"Hey Mom, Dad, Ike—look who's here!" Kyle announced from the entryway of the dining room, his arm intertwined with Craig's, who looked as if he'd rather gouge his own eyes out than be there.

The tension in the room was high, and Kyle was certain that they had recognized Craig almost immediately until his father blurted out, "Well hello, Stan! It's certainly nice of you to join us!"

Craig stared at him.

Kyle elbowed Craig in the side.

"My dad said _hello,_ Stan._"_

Craig winced. "Hi."

"Oh, Stanley! You finally made it!" Sheila shrieked from the table. She waved her hands frantically, motioning for him to come and sit down. The two men took their seats across from Ike. "I'm so glad! Kyle's been in such a foul mood because you haven't been here; maybe now he can finally—"

"Yeah, turns out he's been working so hard that his boss decided to let him leave early," Kyle said. "They really do appreciate him there over at _Goldman Sachs._"

Craig almost choked on his water.

"So we've heard! You've actually been promoted recently too, Kyle says. How's that been working out? Nice view from the new office?"

Craig eyed him. "Yeah. Nice."

Kyle wanted to punch him in the face.

"So have you two finally decided on where you'll be having the wedding?" Sheila asked as she pushed the bowl of mashed potatoes towards Craig, who ignored her question in lieu of putting some for himself.

"We're going with the venue in Denver that we decided on the first time. Actually, we should probably go check it out tomorrow. We've only ever seen pictures of it online," Kyle answered for the both of them. He looked over at Craig, who was busy reaching across the table for the dinner rolls. "You think we need to call ahead before going?"

Craig didn't answer. Ike snapped his knuckles with the side of his butter knife. Craig drew his hand back to his chest protectively, glaring at Kyle's adopted brother from across the table. Ike returned an equally-disgusted look through slitted eyes.

"You little—"

"Kyle asked you a question, _Stan,_" Ike said. "You know, you look a lot different from the last time I saw you. New haircut?"

A chill ran down Kyle's spine; he should've known Ike wouldn't be as dumb as their parents were. "Where'd Dad go?" he asked hurriedly in an attempt to change the subject, noticing that his father was missing.

"He had to go make a phone call," Sheila said, then turned her focus back to Craig. "So, Stanley. How are you two going about handling your last names?"

Kyle groaned. "Ma—"

"Now honey, don't be like that! It's important that you don't cover up your Jewish heritage!" she scolded. "You should be proud of your people!"

"_Ma!_"

"We're hyphenating," Craig interrupted.

"Hyphenating?" Sheila asked. Kyle listened, equally as curious because he certainly wasn't expecting a serious answer out of Craig. "You mean like Marsh-Broflovski?"

"Something like that," Craig said after a brief pause. He took a spoonful of gravy and dripped it over his potatoes. "That way our Jewish princess over here doesn't lose his history."

"Hey!" Kyle snapped, although he was surprised. Whenever the topic of last names came up with Stan, the idea of hyphenating was completely off the table because apparently that's "totally what Mexicans do" and because it sounded "weird" to him. They would end up arguing until they'd both decide to just keep their own last names as they were. "I'm not a princess, asshole!"

"Kyle! Not at the table!"

"Yeah, Kyle. Not at the table," Craig mocked.

"Your mother's right," Gerald chimed in, joining the rest of them back at the table. "You've really got to work on that hot head of yours; especially if you're going to be a lawyer."

Kyle didn't have the energy to remind his father that he was, in fact, a bar certified lawyer in the state of New York, choosing to dig into his chicken instead.

Dinner continued uneventfully, the five of them eating in awkward silence whenever Kyle wasn't dodging one of his family's invasive questions. Craig kept staring at the clock hanging on the wall behind Gerald every couple of minutes, clearly agitated and ready to leave if the audible sigh he'd let out after each glance was any indication. Kyle nudged him with his knee after the third one, shooting him a look. Craig ignored him and went to grab a dinner roll, only to have his knuckles assaulted by Ike again.

"I swear, I'm going to—_ah!_"

"Here, let me get that for you," Kyle said innocently as he ground the heel of his boot into Craig's foot. That was a close call. "Is two enough?" he asked. Craig only answered by staring at him with a set jaw and angry eyes. Kyle thought he was being overdramatic.

"Is everything alright?" Gerald asked.

"Yeah. Stan was just having some trouble reaching is all," Kyle said. Ike snickered from across the table and Craig snuck him a middle finger that just barely went unnoticed by his parents. Kyle slapped Craig under the table.

"_Would you stop it already?"_

"_Don't touch me."_

"_Well stop being a jackass!"_

"Please, boys, not at the table!" Sheila interrupted their little whisper fight with a laugh. "You two can whisper sweet nothings to each other later when you're alone; right now let's eat!"

Craig grumbled something under his breath but Kyle couldn't make it out. It didn't matter; as long as he was finished causing a scene. Kyle gave him another look for good measure before digging back into his own meal.

Almost five minutes had passed and Sheila was just in the middle of asking Ike about his semester at school when Kyle felt something wet squirt all over him from out of nowhere.

"What the hell!" he shouted, reflexively pushing himself away from the table and throwing his hands up. He looked up too see his family staring at him in confusion, then over at Craig, who was trying his hardest to stifle a smirk. It didn't take long for Kyle to put two and two together; the glass of water in Craig's hand and the open piercing hole from his lip ring. Kyle felt sick. "That's disgusting, you fuck!"

"Kyle!" His mother warned for the umpteenth time that evening.

Someone knocking at the front door interrupted what definitely had the potential to turn into a full scale freakout on Kyle's part and Gerald excused himself from the table once again to answer it. Craig quirked a curious brow at Kyle, whose short-lived anger had been replaced with confusion. "Are we supposed to be expecting someone?" he asked to no one in particular.

_"Randy, Sharon! It's so nice to see you two!"_

_"Well thanks for having us, Gerald. Sorry we're a little late."_

Kyle's blood ran cold. He knew those voices.

"What are the Marsh's doing here?"

"Your father thought it'd be a good idea to invite them over since their son was in town; isn't that nice? Now it's a real family dinner!" Sheila exclaimed. Kyle did not share in her excitement. In fact, this was the worst possible thing that could have happened; he was absolutely fucked.

_"Stan's in the dining room with everyone else. Come on."_

Kyle panicked and did the only thing he could think of at the moment to get them out of there—spilling Craig's plate, which still had an abundance of leftover gravy, into his lap.

"Hey—!" Craig shouted and jumped up as if the room-temperature food had burned his crotch.

"Oh, silly me. Look how clumsy I am!" Kyle said and got up along with him, grabbing a fistful of his cardigan by the arm. He began to usher Craig out of the room. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up before that stains. We'll be right back, Mom!"

Sheila looked like she wanted to say something but Kyle dragged Craig out into the hall before she could start. The two of them barely managed to evade his father and the Marshes by a second or two, sneaking up the steps and out of sight while they rounded the corner. Craig waited until they were safely locked away in Kyle's bedroom before exploding.

"What the hell did you do that for, Broflovski!"

"Our cover was almost blown, you idiot—I was saving our asses! If Stan's parents would have seen you they'd of noticed you weren't him in a heartbeat!" Well, maybe not Randy. He was as stupid as they came, but Sharon was pretty perceptive.

"You didn't have to spill gravy on me," Craig seethed, pulling his cardigan taut away from himself. There was no way that stain would come out without a miracle. "You owe me a new one of these."

"Oh, quit your whining; that'll be a cinch for you to clean. You like doing laundry, remember?" Kyle said, waving away Craig's complaints. Craig furrowed his brows, clearly confused. Kyle sighed. "What, you don't remember Thomas?"

"How do you—" Craig shook his head. "That's not the point. You ruined my shirt."

"Fine, okay—I'll get you a new one! Actually, I'll just give you the money for it; add it to what I owe you already. Jeez," Kyle said.

With nothing else to say to each other, the two of them just stood there in silence. Craig fell back onto Kyle's bed, looking around the room and taking in the sights. Kyle did, too. His room looked exactly how he'd left it; neat, though cluttered with stacks of books on the floor next to the desk, and posters of bands and basketball players on the walls. He couldn't remember Craig ever having been in his room before.

"How long are we supposed to stay in here? It's hot."

"Just a couple more minutes; I can still hear them," Kyle answered. He had his ear pressed up against the door. "I think they're getting ready to leave."

Craig was about to protest further until someone knocked fervently at the door, making Kyle jump away as if it'd shocked him. After cursing a few choice words under his breath, he glanced back over at Craig, giving him a look to keep quiet.

"I know you're both in there. Open the door," an unamused Ike said from the other side. Kyle decided to test the waters and ignored him for a few seconds, until they added, "Or I'll tell everyone what you're up to."

"Dammit, Ike!" Kyle whispered heatedly as he fumbled to unlock the door and let his not-so-little brother in; Ike was the tallest of the two now, even if it _was_ only by an inch.

Ike didn't beat around the bush. "That was a really dumb idea, you know," he said, then turned his attention from his to Craig with a glare. "I can't believe you'd seriously use Craig Tucker as a stand in. What gives?" With the ease and obvious malice that Craig's name rolled off his tongue, Kyle was reminded just how strange it was that Ike had recognized Craig so quickly during dinner. He couldn't recall Ike ever hanging around with Craig and his gang when they were younger, let alone even attending the same school at the same time; Kyle and the other's had a good four or five grades on him, after all.

Craig scoffed. "Pot calling the kettle black."

"That's not how you use that phrase, dumbass."

Craig flipped him off.

"How did you know?" Kyle asked, interrupting their little half-hearted spat. "Mom and Dad didn't notice, so how did you?"

"Kind of hard to forget the face of the guy who gets you thrown out of your Intro to Art class during your first year of college." Ike shrugged, jabbing a thumb in Craig's direction. "Not to mention the fact that he doesn't look _anything_ like Stan. I mean, seriously. Have you even looked at him?"

"Hey, _you're_ the one who got _me_ thrown out, Broflovski."

"What the hell are either of you two talking about?" Kyle asked, struggling to keep their attention on him. There was no way they'd gone to college together. "That doesn't even make sense. I mean, Craig, you're like—you're my age, right? And Ike was eighteen his first year…" He tried piecing everything together. Craig wouldn't have been taking an introductory course unless it was his first year as well. "That would mean you started school when you were… twenty-three?"

"So I had a late start."

Kyle found that odd, but decided not to dwell on it. "Why were you kicked out?"

"Because we argued a lot, I guess."

"About what?"

"Assignments. We were paired up as partners for the semester."

"Can you imagine being stuck with this asshole for a week?" Ike cut in. "Working with him was a nightmare; completely devoid of any creativity, and not exactly the best conversationalist. It was like talking to a brick wall."

Craig prickled. "Well maybe if you didn't act like such a self-righteous prick who thought he was smarter than everyone else all the time—"

"Okay, okay. That's enough." Kyle put his hands up when it was clear he wasn't going to get anywhere with these two. The thought of Ike and Craig as partners was definitely something, though. He wondered who had pissed who off first, what with Craig's flippant demeanor and Ike's overly self-assured ways. "Ike, did Stan's parents leave?"

"Probably. They were on their way out when I came up here."

Kyle let out a sigh of relief. He and Craig needed to get out of there fast. "I can trust you to keep quiet, right?"

Ike shrugged. "Give me three-hundred bucks and I will."

"Three-hundred—_Jesus,_ Ike!" What the hell was with everyone draining him of his finances lately? Did everyone seem to think he was just made of money? Maybe he should have taken up a different profession, one that didn't apparently have dollar signs painted all over it. "Ugh, fine; but it'll have to wait until later. I only have about forty on me right now and I need that."

Ike seemed pleased enough with those terms.

They waited another minute or two before deeming it safe to leave. Ike was the first to go, but not after returning the middle finger that Craig had given him earlier. Kyle, with Ike's words stuck in his head on repeat about how Craig looked nothing like Stan, searched his closet hurriedly, tossing clothes all over. Craig, meanwhile, was itching to scram.

"Let's go already."

"Hold on, I'm looking for something."

"What."

After another minute of digging in silence while Craig hovered over him, Kyle finally found what he was looking for.

"Here." He turned to Craig and unceremoniously slapped something onto his head: a dark grey military-style cap. "Great. That'll work."

Craig was not amused. "What."

Kyle hated the way he said that. "It's a hat."

"No shit, Sherlock. But why."

"Just for safety precautions," Kyle told him. "We might run into my parents, or worse—_Stan's_ parents—and it'd be a lot easier to hide the fact that you're not Stan if they can't see your face that well."

Craig grabbed the brim and tipped it up, completely defeating the whole purpose. "Why do you even have this? It's too small, wouldn't fit over your hair."

It was a gift he'd gotten Stan during senior year of high school; something to replace that cheesy, worn out red Cows baseball cap of his. Stan didn't like it though, so Kyle figured he'd wear it himself. But even when he shaved off most of his hair that summer and the hat finally did fit, it just looked stupid on him. Craig, on the other hand, pulled it off quite well. Then again, those kind of hats always looked best on people like Craig; bored and indifferent to the world.

"Don't worry about it. Now c'mon," Kyle said and tipped the brim of the hat back down, making Craig scowl.

Stan's parents were thankfully gone, which made it a lot easier to get through the house with no problems; until Sheila spotted the two of them at the front door where Kyle was lacing up his boots.

"Oh, you just missed your parents, Stan! They were so excited to see you!" she said, then noticed that Craig's jacket was thrown over his shoulder. "Leaving so soon?"

"Sorry about that. But yeah, Stan's not feeling too good, so we're gonna head out."

"There's no point in wasting money when you have a perfectly good room here. Your bed is big enough for the both of you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but," Kyle stammered, at a loss for words. He didn't have an excuse prepared for this. "We um, well. Stan already booked us a hotel so that we can… have some time together alone. You know."

"Oh, how romantic!" Sheila exclaimed, patting Craig on the shoulder, who looked like it'd taken all of his willpower to not pull away. "Well, I did think you looked a little sickly during dinner; very pale. I hope you feel better, Stanley!"

Craig forced a curt closed-mouth smile while Kyle glared at him over his mother's shoulder.

After hugging his mother goodbye, Kyle and Craig bounded down the steps and towards the driveway where an old silver Honda Civic sat parked behind his father's sedan. It wasn't as nice as his newer forest green Jeep Wrangler Unlimited that he insisted on having despite the fact that he lived in the middle of public transport-central and only drove it a handful of times a month—mostly when it was absolutely necessary that he had Mr. Puccini's pizza across the river in Newark—and on the inside it was a total _pigsty_.

"Dude, your car is a mess," Kyle said as he pushed a small pile of plastic food wrappers and soda cans from the passenger seat to the floor. "Haven't you ever heard of a trash can?"

"What are you doing."

"Trying to get in. Keyword: _trying._ I'm not sure there's enough room between the half-empty popcorn bucket and—is that a cat food container? What the hell?"

Craig didn't answer him, starting the car in silence. When Kyle finally finished battling his way into the passenger side and had settled in with an irritated huff, Craig asked, "Where am I taking you."

"Your place, I guess. Unless you can get us free tickets to that new movie that just came out today. I could go for a good movie after all that."

"I never said I was okay with this. You coming over, I mean."

"Well I don't have anywhere else to go, so what do you want me to do?"

"Get a room? I dunno."

"If you and my brother weren't bleeding me fucking _dry_ over here, I might just be able to do that!" Kyle spat venomously. "So if you want your money, you better just shut up and deal with it!"

Kyle expected for Craig to stop the car, maybe even tell him to get out, but Craig seemed strangely unfazed by the outburst. Instead he adjusted the brim of his cap and continued to drive at a painfully slow speed that Kyle would have called him out on if he weren't so preoccupied already.

"Alright," Craig eventually said, his nasally voice cutting through the tense silence. Not another word was spoken between the two of them for the rest of the ride, and Kyle wondered how Craig could be so calm.

* * *

Craig's apartment was on the west side of town, a good two miles away from the community center but only a stone's throw from Stark's Pond. It was a boring two-story complex housing probably around eight or nine families, and Kyle was surprised to find that Craig actually lived in a decent place that wasn't in shambles.

"Don't touch anything," was the first thing out of Craig's mouth as soon as he'd tossed the front door open. He lived on the second floor and had no neighbors, but the noise from the ones below him more than made up for that.

Kyle was astonished to see how well kept the small apartment was, unlike Craig's mess of a car. In fact, it was pretty bare aside from a few signed and framed film release posters scattered on the walls. "How long have you been here?" he asked when he noticed a stack of small brown boxes against the wall near a shelf that looked about ready to collapse underneath the weight of all the DVDs it held. Kyle suddenly recalled Craig's affinity for making movies when they were kids, and how he'd even been part of the AV club in high school.

Craig tossed his keys on the counter and draped his jacket over a bar stool. The kitchen stood adjacent and open to the living room, which didn't contain much other than a navy blue sofa and a brown coffee table sitting across from a moderately sized TV that read **RESUME**. The game console on the floor in front of it was left on.

"Since senior year," Craig said. He was still wearing the hat that Kyle had forced onto him. Kyle wanted to ask what the deal was with the boxes, but then Craig announced, "I'm going to bed."

"Hey, wait!" Kyle called out. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"You can sleep on the floor for all I care. Goodnight."

"I'm not paying you five-thousand dollars so I can sleep on your floor," Kyle reminded him. He knew there was another bedroom somewhere—there were too many doors for there _not_ to be.

Craig stopped his trek for the short hallway where Kyle assumed his room was and turned around. For a second he just stared, looking indifferent as usual, until Kyle folded his arms across his chest to show that he meant business. Craig sighed and went for a door in the living room instead, momentarily disappearing behind it to produce a dark red blanket that had its fair share of stains. Kyle figured that door must've led to a spare bedroom, then.

"Here; sleep on the couch," Craig said as he chucked the rolled up blanket at Kyle, who'd gotten a face full of it. He turned on his heel and started off for the hall again.

"Why can't I stay in there?"

"Because. Goodnight." And with that, Craig slammed his bedroom door shut.

Annoyed, Kyle groaned and fell back onto the worn out sofa, sinking in as if he were being swallowed by quicksand. Part of him was grossed out, being forced to sleep on a potentially filthy couch; he didn't know what Craig did in his spare time and idly wondered how many people had fucked in that exact same spot where he was sitting. He was even more so at odds over the blanket Craig had gotten from the mysterious room, which smelled like it'd been doused in Axe body spray once a day for the past three months. But after a good fifteen minutes of silently griping and complaining to nobody but himself, Kyle ended up stretched out across the couch with the blanket pulled up to his chin, hoping that Craig would choke on his own spit in his sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Kyle woke up to someone's tongue in his mouth.

"What the…" he mumbled, cracking an eye open. When his brain began to process what was happening, he shot his arms out to push the offender off and away. They fell to the floor with a dull thud. _"Blech!"_

"Is he finally awake?" someone that definitely wasn't Craig asked enthusiastically from behind the sofa. It smelled like something was burning. "Did you wake him up? Huh? C'mere, boy!"

Kyle looked down in time to see a mass of dark fur disappear around the corner of the couch, presumably following the voice. Kyle, deciding to take a page from their book, sat up.

"Good morning, man!" It was Clyde, in all of his **KISS THE COOK** apron-wearing glory. His hair was still short and choppy the way it'd been throughout childhood and he looked exactly the same, except perhaps maybe a bit more filled out since the last time Kyle saw him. On the floor at his feet was a small white dog with black and brown markings and a red bandana tied around its neck.

"Nice of you to join the rest of us in the living world!" Clyde said, waving a spatula around to help gesticulate his words. There was way too much smoke rising from the pan on the stove for Kyle to be comfortable with. "I didn't want to wake you up, but Charlie apparently insisted. You hungry? I made breakfast!"

"Clyde? What are you doing here?" Kyle asked, rubbing his eyes. "Who's dog is that?"

"I live here. And this is Charlie—he's Craig's dog. Well, sorta my dog, too. See? I picked out his bandana," Clyde pointed the spatula at the dog, dripping grease all over the floor. Charlie was only more than happy to lick it up. "We went out for a walk last night and when we came back you were asleep on the couch. Charlie wanted to lay with you but you looked totally wiped out, so I kept him with me for the night."

Kyle looked down at the blanket pooled around his legs. "This is yours, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I don't mind. I had another one." Clyde shrugged. "That one really needs washed."

"I know," Kyle said. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up, stretching his arms out; that couch was way too soft to be sleeping on and his upper back was suffering the consequences.

He watched as Clyde dumped a heaping mass of something onto a paper plate and then continued to season it gratuitously with pepper. "What is that?"

"Eggs. Want some?" Clyde offered eagerly as he stabbed some onto a fork. They didn't look like eggs. He gave a mumbled 'ah' when it burned his tongue, rightfully so, and he spit it not-so-graciously back onto his plate. He'd try again later if Kyle remembered him correctly. "I made turkey bacon too, but I don't think it's done yet."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure it's _well_ done."

"Hey! That's funny, right? Because you're Jewish?" Clyde said. "I didn't even know you were gonna be here; I just bought turkey bacon 'cause it's supposed to be healthier. Less fat in it." He paused, then scratched his head. Grease from the spatula dribbled down the handle and onto his shoulder. "Are you still Jewish?"

"Yes, Clyde. I'm still Jewish," Kyle answered. It didn't particularly mean that he kept from eating pork, though. At this point in his life he was far more ethnically Jewish than he was religiously.

"Oh, cool."

Kyle sat at the counter, watching Clyde as he fixed another plate of food. He had so many questions going through his head; most of them had to do with what Clyde was still doing in that hick town and why he was living with Craig, but when he took a bite of the burnt eggs and too-crispy bacon he was more concerned with who the hell let Clyde near a stove top.

"Sorry if it's not that good. Turkey bacon kind of sucks."

"It's okay. This is fine." Kyle forced an appreciative smile as he gnawed on the bark-like cuts of meat. "It's great."

"So what are you doing back in South Park, man?" Clyde asked. "And, like. Not to sound rude or anything, but what are you doing here? In our apartment, I mean."

"It's… complicated," Kyle said, hoping that Clyde would just take his answer at face value and leave it at that because it _was_ complicated, and it was way too early to even be talking about it if the flashing time on the microwave held any truth to it. "Craig is just helping me out with something."

"Oh. Well, that's cool. It'll be awesome having someone else around to hang out with," Clyde said. He was clumsy with his own plate as he ate and talked and gestured, but Charlie was there every step of the way to eat anything he might drop. "It's just so weird 'cause Craig totally mentioned you yesterday. Or I guess, it'd be the day before, now? I think. Yeah."

He had Kyle's attention. "Really? What'd he say?"

"Something about how you're an asshole and how he was glad you moved far away, but that's just Craig," He shrugged. "I don't think you're an asshole, though. You were always pretty nice to me."

"Did he say anything else?" Kyle wanted to know just how much Craig might've revealed to Clyde about their little agreement. The last thing he needed was Clyde and his notoriously-big mouth telling everyone his business.

"Not really. I didn't get a chance to ask because he went to bed right after. He does that a lot, actually. Usually when he wants to avoid confrontation," Clyde explained. "He won't admit it, but I think it's because it makes him nervous."

_Of what,_ Kyle wanted to ask, but didn't. He never remembered Craig being the kind of person to get uncomfortable or shy about anything, even if he _was_ well known for avoiding most social gatherings and public functions in high school.

"So how long are you staying with us?"

"Shit," Kyle mumbled as he pushed the still mostly-full plate of what was supposed to be food away. With the microwave flashing 8:40 AM in green directly across from him, he was suddenly reminded that it was about time to take his morning insulin. Too bad he'd forgotten it at his parents' house.

"That bad, huh?" Clyde tsked. He took Kyle's plate and set it on the ground, letting Charlie finish it off. "That's okay though, cause you'll eat it, right? Right, Charlie? You're a good boy!"

"Don't talk to my dog like that," Craig commanded from somewhere out of sight.

Kyle groaned as he planned the logistics of how he'd go about stopping by his parents' house to pick up his insulin without being forced to stay and visit. Not only that, but he needed a change of clothes, too.

Out of his peripheral vision, something blue caught his eye—an opened package of Red Vines stuffed into a Ziploc bag next to the paper towel roll. Determined to get the taste of charred meat out of his mouth, he reached over and grabbed them.

"Uh. I wouldn't eat those if I were you," Clyde warned.

"Why not?" Kyle asked. "Something wrong with them?"

"Well. No," Clyde said, looking conflicted. "It's just that Craig doesn't like it when people eat his candy. Mostly me, but other people, too."

Kyle waved him off as he fished out a licorice rope and took a bite. He wasn't worried about Craig throwing a hissy fit over some candy, but more so whether or not they were still edible, which was hardly. They were bland and tough to chew, and Kyle thought it was oddly fitting for Craig to like them.

As if the stale theater candy had summoned him, Craig rounded the corner. He looked ready for the day, or at least as ready as Craig Tucker possibly could be, dressed in a pair of dark fitted jeans and a pullover hoodie with an obscure band name Kyle didn't recognize that looked too thick for summer. He had the hat from yesterday in his hand.

"Craig!" Clyde said a little too loudly, considering the fact that all three of them were well within six feet of each other.

"Clyde," Craig said back in his usual tone. He shook his head when Clyde held the frying pan out to him. But when the dog barked at his feet, Craig got down on one knee and cracked what was probably the first actual honest-to-God smile since Kyle had been back in town while dishing out some very spirited belly rubs.

"Charlie! Good morning, buddy."

Seeing him _look_ happy was one thing, but hearing that normally void-of-interest voice hitch up a few octaves in excitement was a whole different story. It almost seemed weirdly intimate, and Kyle had to fight himself from looking away.

"Jeez, at least buy him dinner first," Kyle found himself blurting out awkwardly without thinking, feeling the need to remind everyone that he was there.

Craig looked up. His smile faded.

"Why are you eating my candy," he asked. He turned to Clyde when he didn't get an immediate answer. "Did you tell Broflovski he could eat my candy."

Clyde put his hands up in defense.

"I'm not, see?" Kyle pushed the rest of the licorice down into the bag and shoved it aside. He shouldn't have been eating those anyway—not when he had yet to check his blood sugar. "But hey, it's good that you're up. There's a lot of stuff we need to get done."

"We?"

"Yeah. _We,_" Kyle said. "As in you and me?"

"I know what that means," Craig said, "but I'm busy today."

"But you're supposed to come help me look for a place to have the—_you know_." Kyle nodded at Clyde while his attention was on scraping the frying pan clean. The less he knew, the better. "Don't you remember me mentioning that last night during dinner?"

Craig shrugged. "Too bad. Clyde and I already have plans for today, and I work later."

"I don't care, I'm paying you—!"

"You know, I've been thinking," Craig said, cutting him off when Clyde left for the bathroom. "If you're going to be staying with me, eating my food, _and_ forcing me to play along with this bullshit role, it's only fair if you at least pay me something upfront." He began to lace up his yellow Converse, not once looking up at Kyle who'd been burning holes into the top of his head the whole time. "Besides, how else can I know for sure you'll actually pay me in the end."

"Because I'm not a _liar_," Kyle spat. Craig was dangerously close to surpassing Cartman on his shit list. "When have I ever broke a promise? Name _one_ _time_."

"You still owe me a hundred dollars from when you took my birthday money and forced me to join your stupid Peruvian flute band."

"Jesus Christ, you're _still_ on that?" Kyle was floored at the sheer one-track mindedness this man boasted, not to mention his willingness to hold a grudge from well over ten years ago. But no matter how long Kyle stared at him in disbelief, Craig didn't budge. "You know what, fine. I'll get you your money, dude. Whatever."

"I'm not your dude," is all that Craig said in return to him. "Clyde, are you ready?"

Clyde popped his head out from around the corner, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a small duffle bag in hand. Craig nodded in acknowledgement before he disappeared back into the bathroom for a moment.

Kyle was curious. "So what are we doing today, then?"

"Nothing."

"We're going to a film festival down at Stark's Pond. Wanna come?" Clyde asked, dropping the bag onto the couch. "We're also gonna mess around and try out this new camera Craig ordered last week; he's been crazy excited since it got here. You should join us!"

Kyle was going to pass on the offer and ask if it'd be alright if he just hung around the apartment until they got back, but he couldn't help but find some sort of spiteful amusement in the way Craig's jaw clenched at Clyde's unauthorized invitation. Besides, his house was on the other side of town and he still needed a ride over there.

"Sure, why not. Sounds like it might be fun."

Clyde gave him a bro-worthy fist bump that he couldn't have prepared for even if he tried, while Craig stood off to the side, glaring at the both of them.

* * *

Kyle ended up taking his insulin shot on time.

The only person that was home when Kyle stopped by was his mother, and she hadn't even noticed him sneak in. That was good though, since Craig was already not too happy about having to wait for him in the car, complaining about how Kyle would _"make them late," _which was absolute bullshit because what film festival started at ten in the morning on a Monday?

Kyle knew that Craig was just being a petty asshole. It was evident in the way that Craig forced him to sit in the backseat, and how he let out the World's Biggest Sigh™ when Kyle requested that they stopped back at the apartment before doing anything else, as if driving an extra block was the biggest inconvenience in the world. It wasn't _his_ fault that insulin needed to stay refrigerated.

"Took you long enough," Craig had said when he got back in the car and handed him the keys. He made sure to hide his insulin in the back of the fridge so that neither Craig nor Clyde would accidentally stumble upon it. "You better not have gone in my room."

The festival was… a success, by South Park standards. Only a handful of people showed up; a couple of them Kyle recognized from high school, though he didn't say anything to them. What _was_ there to say? Kyle had no reason to waste his time on people who felt compelled to stay in that redneck, white trash town; so he stuck to Clyde for most of the day, because Clyde was his only source of entertainment. Well, him and Charlie, who'd glued his furry self to Kyle's side. The dog had taken an odd liking to him, and Kyle couldn't deny him a few pats on the head here and there. Clyde said he was a Jack Russell-something mix.

Craig had been engrossed from start to finish, leaned back on the grass as he watched each and every short film as if there were hidden messages in them. The only time Craig spoke was to tell Kyle 'no' when he asked if it'd be alright if he ditched and went back to the apartment because he was bored. Craig didn't trust him to not snoop through his stuff. So Kyle kept busy by playing fetch with Charlie and Clyde, who must not have understood how fetch worked, because he'd constantly try to outrun Charlie for the stick—and win.

Two gruelingly long hours later, the festival began to wrap things up and Craig seemed to be full of some sort of renewed vigor. With the camcorder in hand, the three of them took off for the nearby fields, Craig documenting every step of the way as he tested out the new filter features and wide-angle lens. Clyde was a total camera whore, getting in front of it at every chance he got. Kyle was the opposite. Craig actually avoided Kyle for the most part, but every now and then he'd turn the camera on him for some reason, as if he thought Kyle wouldn't notice. Kyle did though, and Craig was quick to focus in on something else instead.

Kyle didn't understand Craig at all. Occasionally he would grin when Clyde said something stupid on camera or whenever Charlie stole the spotlight, and he was still wearing that gray military cap from yesterday.

"You know, you don't have to wear the hat anymore."

Craig shrugged. "I know. I don't mind." He fiddled with it absentmindedly, pushing the brim up just a little. Kyle wondered if that meant he liked it. "Keeps the sun out of my eyes."

"Whatever. Hey, can I see your camera?"

"No."

They eventually found themselves pulling into the parking lot of Tweak Bros at Clyde's persistent requests, where he almost tripped over his untied shoelaces in a race to get out of the car before anyone else. Kyle was glad; not that Clyde had almost face-planted the pavement, but because they were finally done. He desperately needed to sit down and relax, preferably somewhere air conditioned. While Craig walked Charlie over by a patch of grass before going inside, Kyle hit up the ATM at the liquor store two buildings down.

The coffee shop smelled exactly how Kyle expected it would, only ten times stronger than any Starbucks he'd ever been inside. It looked a lot nicer than he remembered. He quickly spotted the others standing at the counter across from a familiar blond with wide eyes, wearing a black coffee-stained apron.

"Tweek?"

"Holy shit, man! You can't just sneak up on a guy like that!" he shouted, nearly dropping the mug of coffee in his hand. Some of it sloshed out onto the counter. "Who are you? How do you know my name!"

"Hey Tweek, chill! It's Kyle Broflovski. From school, remember?" Clyde said, taking the coffee from Tweek before he could spill the rest of it. The way his hand lingered over Tweek's a little longer than it needed to didn't go unnoticed to Kyle. "Cartman's friend?"

"Also, you're wearing a nametag, dumbass," Craig pointed out dully.

"Ah! Cartman? Get out, get out!"

"Whoa, hey—Cartman isn't my friend!" Kyle said. "What the hell, Clyde?"

Clyde looked confused. "But you used to hang out with him all the time, though."

"Because I couldn't get _away_ from him," Kyle said. He still very much hated that fat bastard. Like clockwork, every Easter there would be a neatly hand-written letter in a sealed envelope in his mailbox addressed to one **Jersey Jinger Jew (AKA Kahl)** that more or less was just a repeat of the previous year's list of reasons on why Kyle was, in fact, the anti-Christ, and was full of Cartman's usual childish anti-semitic slurs. He'd receive a copy of _The Passion_ later during Christmas time.

Tweek blinked spastically, one eye at a time. "So you're not friends with him? Good. G-good! Jesus Christ!" He accidentally popped off a button from his shirt when he pulled on it too hard. Craig blocked it from bouncing off the counter. "Aw, man! Not again!"

"Relax. I can sew it back on," Craig told him, pocketing the yellow button for later.

"Cartman comes in all the time and makes Tweek give him free stuff. He's a real asshole," Clyde explained.

"Cartman's still here?" Kyle asked. Did _anyone_ leave South Park at all?

"Yeah. He's a cop."

The thought of Eric Cartman with that much power made Kyle feel sick to his stomach.

"He stresses me out, man! He hasn't been in here all week but I know he's gonna strike soon! He's just waiting. Waiting and—Ah! He's gonna get me, you guys!" Tweek spazzed, hunched in on himself. Tweek's sickly-thin and narrow build made him seem a lot taller than he actually was, and his constantly-disheveled hair added a good inch or two to the illusion. The bags under his tired hazel eyes made Kyle wonder if he ever slept.

Kyle found a seat in a corner booth with Charlie while he waited for Craig and Clyde to finish ordering. Not that he didn't enjoy talking to Tweek again after so long, but a little bit of Tweek went a long way.

"I see Tweek's just as neurotic as ever," Kyle said when Craig slid into the booth across from him. Tweek was haphazardly wiping down the coffee equipment with a ratty green rag while Clyde sat on the counter, talking at his back.

"Yup."

"Shouldn't he be on some kind of medication? Like Adderall, or Ritalin?"

"No."

"Why don't you think so?"

"It's just the way he is." Craig shrugged, clearly not interested in the conversation. He kept his eyes on the table in front of him as he boredly turned his muffin around in circles. He had a small black coffee pushed to the side.

Kyle made a face. "You're seriously going to drink that?"

"I don't like coffee."

"Then why buy it?"

Craig ignored him.

"Ike was right—trying to talk to you _is_ like talking to a brick wall." Kyle sighed, slouching down into his seat. Craig looked up at him darkly, his lips a thin line. "Anyways, here, before Clyde comes; hopefully this is enough for now."

Craig looked down to find a thick wad of folded over twenty-dollar bills being thrust at him from underneath the table. He took it and counted it out in his lap silently. When he was finished, he looked up at Kyle, making eye contact for the first time since they'd left the apartment.

"What, you want more?"

"No—" Craig said, his voice cracking the slightest bit. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's… this is enough."

"Good, because that's all I'm giving you for now. Stan's oblivious, but he's not stupid. He'll notice if there's too much missing at once," Kyle said, then immediately turned his attention to the menu board hanging above Tweek instead. He considered maybe going up and getting himself something—a small latte didn't sound so bad; plus it'd be a nice excuse to escape the growing tension between them.

"I like the way it smells," Craig said, breaking the awkward silence before Kyle could make up his mind. "The coffee, I mean."

"You buy it just to smell it? That's kind of weird, especially since that stuff smells like shit."

Craig shrugged. "Do you want something? Like coffee, or whatever. Or a muffin. This one's pumpkin flavored."

"Why are you being nice to me?" Kyle asked. He already knew the answer—when money talks, bullshit walks, after all—but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. "You were just being a total jackass two minutes ago. Now you want to talk?"

"Whatever." Craig took a bite of his muffin and looked out the window, forcefully ignoring Kyle's presence. From his angle, Kyle could see Craig's uneven bite mark left in the pastry, and he couldn't help but remember in 7th grade when Craig had finally gotten braces and how halfway through the year his parents couldn't afford to keep sending him to the orthodontist. Craig was stuck with the empty metal brackets cemented to his teeth until the beginning of sophomore year, when rumors started going around about how Kenny McCormick took them off with his dad's pliers in the boys bathroom in exchange for a cheeseburger and a blowjob. Those slightly discolored patches on his teeth were hardly noticeable, but they would never go away.

Kyle sighed, looking at the small camcorder bag on the edge of the table. If Craig was actually attempting to make nice and have a civil conversation for once, he figured he should probably be the bigger man and just play along.

"So did you like the camcorder?"

It took a few seconds, but Craig turned back to Kyle with his arms folded across his chest.

"It's alright for the price."

"Get any good shots?"

"A couple."

"Get any good shots of _me?_"

Craig stared at him.

"I'm kidding," Kyle told him when it was painfully clear that Craig did not find nearly as much humor in that as he did himself. "You're not one for jokes, are you?"

"I like jokes. You're just not funny."

"_You're_ not funny!" Kyle snapped back a little too quickly. Craig actually chuckled. "What? What are you laughing at, asshole?"

"You. You're funny."

"Hey, what about me? I'm funny too, right?" Clyde asked as he slid into the booth next to Craig, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation. "Right, Craig?"

"Funny looking, sure."

Clyde frowned. "Yeah, well that's not what Bebe says!"

"It doesn't matter what Bebe says. She's stupid."

"You're not funny looking, Clyde," Kyle assured the largest of the three when he looked like he was seriously taking what Craig said to heart. It was true; he was tall, standing just a couple inches shy of Craig's six-foot-three, the spare tire around his waist seemed to fit him perfectly, and he was boyishly handsome in all of his clumsy bull-in-a-china-shop ways. "You're very cute. I would totally date you."

"Oh God, please don't infect him with your gayness; I don't think he could handle it. His head might implode," Craig said, and Kyle was pretty sure he could actually detect a hint of playful sarcasm in there somewhere.

"You joke about me not being able to handle being gay when _you're_ the one who couldn't handle the D and you _are_ gay, so suck on that!" Clyde countered smugly, making a V motion down towards his crotch. Kyle was suddenly very confused about the nature of their relationship, and the way Craig shifted awkwardly in his seat didn't help.

Kyle fretted to think of something to say—aside from asking whether or not Craig had actually rode Clyde's dick or something, because _God_ was he curious now—that would put their conversation back on a normal track. He was almost _getting_ somewhere with Craig before that stupid joke had to ruin it.

"So, art school, huh?"

Craig was not against this change in conversational direction in the least. "What about it."

"Nothing; I just remembered Ike mentioning the two of you went to school together." He thought about how Craig looked behind the camcorder, calm and focused as the world played back to him through the small screen. Sometimes he even looked amused, going so far as to crack a wry smile before catching himself. "If you don't mind me asking; why art school?"

"I went for film and media production."

"But… shouldn't you have gone to film school for that?" Not that Kyle was completely ignorant of the inner-workings of how art schools actually functioned, but, well, he was completely ignorant of the inner-workings of how art schools actually functioned.

"They have a program at the Art Institute. It was good enough. Besides, the nearest actual film school that doesn't suck dick is like, six hours from here. The drive to AI was already shitty enough three times a week." Craig shrugged, then lifted a brow. "Why are you asking me all this?"

"No reason. I was just thinking that the camera really suits you; that's all," Kyle said. "Even though you were sort of just messing around with it earlier, it looked—_natural,_ in a way; you holding it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, definitely." When Kyle could actually start to hear the inquisitive tone in Craig's voice, he knew he had him hook, line, and sinker. "So, like. What'd you do in school? Did you make any movies?"

"Not… really. They were more like short films. You don't just make movies right off the bat. I got to do a lot of editing work, though."

"Well either way, I'm sure whatever you did was pretty awesome, dude."

Craig seemed conflicted. "Uh. I could maybe—show you? One of the short films. Or like, two. I guess." He began to turn his half-eaten muffin around in circles again once more, only this time it was clearly out of nervousness rather than boredom. "If you wanted to see them, I mean. They're not really anything special."

"Are you kidding, bro?" Clyde butt in, slinging an arm over his best friend's shoulders. Craig shrugged him off. "Kyle, man, he made the _best _videos. Like, there was this one, right—and I was totally in it, by the way—where I was a cop and Charlie was my K9 dog buddy, okay, and Charlie died, but not really because obviously he's right there next to you, but _oh man_ that shit was so sad and it won—was it the first year short video contest? Or was that one of those documentary thingies you made?"

Craig groaned.

"You made documentaries?" Kyle liked documentaries.

"He made _tons_ of stuff, man! It just sucks that he dropped out, you know? But I guess shit happens." Clyde's attention switched to the front when Tweek let out a shrill gasp at the sound of the oven timer. "Oooh, brownies are ready! Be right back, guys."

"_Clyde_—_!_" Craig tried to stop his best friend, but he wasn't quick enough.

"Wait—you dropped out of art school?" Kyle asked. "How come?"

"Because. Reasons." Craig said bluntly.

Kyle didn't like that answer. "I just don't understand. How do you even manage to drop out of art school of all places? I mean, medical school, business school, sure—but _art school?_"

"I don't want to talk about it, alright? Just back off."

"Fine, Jeez. Sorry." Kyle rolled his eyes. "I was just trying to understand. Sorry for _bothering_ you."

Kyle could feel Craig watching him as he tapped at his phone, going through his unread text messages. "I didn't have the money," Craig eventually admitted. When Kyle didn't look up from his phone, he sighed and continued. "I couldn't afford to keep going if I still wanted to have a place to live. Between gas money and tuition, I was always broke."

"What, you didn't have financial aid?"

"Not after my second year. I lost it because I failed a few classes and my GPA fell," Craig mumbled. "I was just under a lot of stress at the time. It wasn't because I'm stupid or anything."

Kyle finally looked up. "I didn't think you _were_ stupid."

"Yes you did. I saw the way you looked at me when Clyde said I'd dropped out. You thought I was an idiot."

"That's not true!"

"Then why did you look at me like that?"

"I was confused! How _else_ would you have liked me to look at you?"

"How about not in the judgmentally condescending way that you look at someone who's just a waste of space and doesn't even know it," Craig suggested defensively. "Just because your life is perfect and you're happy playing house with your fake ass faggot boyfriend _Marsh_ who works for some stupid company that even _sounds_ retarded doing fuck all doesn't mean—"

"Okay, _clearly_ you have some anger issues that need to be worked out," Kyle interrupted, cutting his rant short. He'd never seen Craig shoot off at the mouth like that before. "If you want to vent or something I'm more than happy to listen, but I'm not going to sit here and let you take your frustration out on me. It's not my fault you're insecure."

"I'm _not_ insecure."

"It's alright, I'm not judging you or anything. Relax." Kyle shrugged, patting Charlie on the head. Craig glared at him. "College isn't for everyone."

"Whatever."

"Besides—art school or not, it doesn't change that fact that you've probably made some awesome videos. I'd still like to check them out sometime," Kyle said. Craig visibly relaxed and nodded, letting his shoulders drop.

"And hey—maybe dropping out was even a good thing, you know? What would a degree in film production do, anyway?" Kyle continued, putting his foot right back in his mouth. "I mean, you don't need to go to college to make movies, so you're probably saving yourself a ton of wasted time and money by not going." He paused, furrowing his brows in thought. "Actually, why didn't you go to school for a normal degree and just take film as an elective? That'd of been a lot more practical."

Craig pushed himself out from the booth.

"Hey, wait—where are you going?" Kyle asked, but Craig didn't answer as he stormed out the door.

* * *

Back in Manhattan, Stan fumbled with the keys to the apartment. He was on his way out to do the laundry that he should have had done yesterday, but between the Sunday night game and the two hour long marathon of _Let's Make a Deal_, he'd completely lost track of the time and had forgotten all about the monumental pile of unwashed clothes in the corner of his and Kyle's bedroom.

Stan sighed as he locked the door and adjusted the black garbage bag full of dirty laundry over his shoulder. He wondered if Kyle would be upset that he didn't call yesterday. He'd forgotten to do that, too.

It wasn't like he didn't miss him or anything—Kyle _was_ his super best friend, after all—but he was sort of enjoying the time alone. It was nice not having to live up to someone else's expectations for a while and to just worry about himself. He loved Kyle to death, but he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy coming home to relax on the couch with a cold one—or two—or that letting the dishes pile up in the sink without getting nagged at was kind of awesome. Hey, they'd get done eventually; just not right now.

Stan shouldered his way out the main door of their building and onto the busy sidewalk, starting off in the direction of what was hopefully the nearest laundromat. He wasn't the one who usually did the laundry, and he'd only been there twice before.

_Maybe I could make it up to him tonight. Call him while I'm waiting—_

"Shit! I'm sorry," Stan apologized when he accidentally bumped into someone, tearing him from his thoughts for a second but not stopping. His response was automatic, really—running into folks was a given on the streets of Manhattan—but it still always managed to throw him off.

"Stan?"

Stan came to a grinding halt and whipped around when he heard his name, almost hitting a passerby with the garbage bag slung over his shoulder. If he hadn't of been paying attention before, he was now.

"Stan Marsh?" The person—_man_—tried again, this time a little more slowly, as if they were trying to gauge his level of confusion. They were tall, around his own height but with a slightly thinner build, looking as if he'd stepped off the cover of _Aryan Race Weekly_. His medium-length blond hair was gelled and combed neatly to the right, and his pastel blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up was tucked into his jeans, making Stan feel ridiculously underdressed in his gym shorts and faded AC/DC t-shirt. He couldn't recall ever knowing a grown man who had hair that blond past childhood _and_ blue eyes to boot, let alone someone who actually thought tucking their shirt into their jeans was a good idea.

"I'm sorry. Do I, uh. Know you from somewhere?"

"It's Gary! We were on the football team together?"

"Gary?" Stan couldn't believe his ears, or his eyes for that matter. It definitely looked like him, but there was no way this guy could be the same Gary that he'd gotten told off from in front of Cartman and Kyle back when they were kids, then rekindled his friendship with during junior year of high school when he joined the football team seemingly out of nowhere. The same Gary that had to move during the middle of senior year to go back to Utah with his family, leaving Stan with nothing but a hug and a phone number that would eventually be out of service a year later. The same Gary that told him just two weeks before he left in hushed breaths at a mostly-empty lunch table right before the bell rang that he maybe, possibly, _might _have been—

"Holy shit, dude!"

"Yeah, I could say I'm pretty surprised as well!" Gary laughed.

"Do you—how—" Stan stammered, not knowing where to possibly start. "_Why haven't you called me?_" would have probably worked just fine, but instead he settled on, "What are you doing here in New York?"

"Oh, well…" Gary was at a loss for words, which was unusual from what Stan remembered. As if he were afraid someone might've been watching, he looked over his shoulder before answering. "It's a bit of a lengthy story, really, but I guess I just needed a change of scenery."

"Yeah, I get what you mean. I just never expected you to be in a place like this, though. I thought you liked Utah because, um, you know." Stan nodded at Gary as if it were painfully obvious.

"Because I'm a Mormon?"

"Uh. Yeah." Stan felt like an idiot. "Or not? I mean, I dunno. Like—but hey, you know, if you're actually staying around here, maybe we could hang out sometime? I kinda have a Facebook now so I could add you if you have one." The first year after high school he'd sporadically used Kyle's own Facebook account to check and see what Gary was up to, until it for some reason disappeared. "Unless that's not you're thing, I mean. Then just forget I even mentioned it."

"Stan?"

"Huh?"

"I think you're rambling, buddy."

"Oh." Stan forced a laugh. "Sorry. It's just been so long and—I guess I just don't know what to say without sounding dumb. But really dude, it'd be cool to catch up. It's been a while."

Gary shrugged, patting him on the shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it." Stan felt like they were out on the field all over again, because this was exactly what he used to do after Stan fumbled the ball during a play. "But yeah, that'd be nice. There's… actually a lot of stuff that I really need to talk to you about, anyway."

"You need to talk to _me_?"

"Yeah. Hey, actually, if you're not busy, do you want to maybe go sit down somewhere and talk now? There's this little place about four blocks from here that I've been wanting to check out since I got here, and I think now would be a good time as ever," Gary suggested, palming the back of his neck nervously.

"Right now?" Stan was reminded of the heavy bag of laundry he had thrown over his shoulder. While he really did need to wash clothes, he was far more intrigued in what it was that Gary apparently needed to talk about with _him_ of all people. The laundry could wait until tomorrow.

"If it's too much trouble—"

"No, now's fine. Just let me go drop this back off at my apartment, okay? I'm not exactly feeling up to dragging around dirty laundry with me. Wait right here, don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere." Gary laughed as he watched Stan retreat back into the building which he'd only came out of moments before.

Stan made quick work of leaving the laundry in the entryway and hurrying back down the steps as if he were afraid Gary would suddenly disappear into thin air once more, until his phone chimed from his pocket. He assumed it was a text from Kyle and pulled it out to read it, only to be confused when it turned out to be some sort of cryptic message from his mother.

_REALLY SAD WE HAD TO MISS YOU LAST NIGHT! DINNER WAS LOVELY. HOPE YOU'RE FEELING BETTER! LOVE, MOM._


	4. Chapter 4

"Goodness—it's like everyone is out shopping today!"

Kyle nodded habitually as he followed his mother, maneuvering around the other people in the narrow aisle and not really paying attention to what she was saying. He was too preoccupied with his phone, scrolling through his incoming calls log with furrowed brows, wondering why none of them had been from Stan.

"Is there a holiday coming up that I'm not aware of? Kyle? Oooh, maybe I should make quiche tonight." Decidedly, Sheila made a sudden sharp right into the next aisle over. Kyle continued forward until his boot stubbed the open floor cooler in front of him, making him look up for the first time since they'd entered the grocery store. Sheila sighed. "Would you _please_ put that thing away? You've done nothing but text since we pulled into the parking lot almost an hour ago."

"Ma, I'm not—"

"That's enough, Kyle! I understand you miss Stanley, but it's not like you won't see him later!" Sheila reminded him a little too loudly. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to come shopping with me. Now help your mother and get me a couple cans of spinach from that shelf over there."

"Whatever." Kyle huffed and pocketed his phone. The only reason he'd even asked to tag along was because he needed someplace to go for the next few hours. Spending the afternoon with his mother was bad enough, but it definitely beat staring at the front door of Craig's apartment in boredom. Or, at least he thought it would. Now he wasn't so sure.

Less than a week had passed since Kyle had "moved" in, but it seemed more like a month. Aside from the couch where he spent his often fitful and sleepless nights, he was pretty much living out of his suitcase that sat propped up against the wall next to the bookcase full of DVDs. Kyle felt like a complete stranger there, awkward and uncomfortable without a space to call his own. Craig, who it seemed had made it his mission to ensure Kyle didn't get too cozy, wouldn't even let him leave his toothbrush in the shared communal bathroom cup.

Craig didn't have too many rules, but there were two in particular that he did enforce on the regular. For one, Kyle wasn't allowed to be in the apartment alone; either Craig or Clyde had to be there, too. No matter how much Kyle complained, Craig wouldn't back down. Thankfully though, since Clyde spent most of his time on the living room floor playing Titanfall, he had yet to actually experience being locked out.

The other, and by far the most important rule, was that Craig's room was strictly off limits. While Clyde naturally had some leeway here, Kyle had none, and under absolutely no circumstances was he allowed to go anywhere _near_ it. Not only was it irritating to constantly hear, "You better not go in my room, Broflovski," every time he went to use the bathroom, but it also fanned the flames of Kyle's growing wonder of what the hell Craig was hiding in his room and why he was so secretive about it.

"Speaking of Stanley, how is he? Is he feeling any better since that night?"

"Huh?" Kyle blinked. "Oh. Yeah, he's fine. Food poisoning from the uh, airplane food. "

"Oh my, that sounds horrible!" Sheila gasped. "Did you call the airline and tell them? Maybe they'll give him a refund, or at least a free ticket for his next trip. They should take care of that!"

"Yeah."

"Poor Stanley. He's always had a bit of a weak stomach, hasn't he?"

"I guess."

"Well, I'm just glad he was able to come to dinner. It was quite the surprise; I hadn't seen him in so long!" Sheila said, then continued to browse a few shelves of pasta noodles for the best possible deal. Kyle took this opportunity to glance back at his phone for a second before Sheila started back up with the inquiries. "Maybe I'm just forgetting in my old age, but I thought Stanley looked a little different," she mentioned absentmindedly as she stared at a box of spaghetti. "I remember him being more talkative and less, well, _tired_-looking; that poor boy looked exhausted!"

"You're not old, Ma." Kyle rolled his eyes. Inside he was frantically trying to think of how to answer her without making it a big deal; he hadn't prepared for this. "And it's just his job. He works a lot so I mean, it wears him out. Besides, he'd just got off a five hour flight, so it only makes sense he'd be tired and not want to talk much."

Sheila nodded. "You're right; I suppose that would make sense. I just don't understand why he almost felt like a stranger to me. Maybe it's really just been too long." With that said, Sheila ended her interrogation and continued shopping.

Kyle let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and kept on her heels. He was lucky she didn't remember Stan too well as far as small details went, or else he'd of been screwed. For once in his life the gods were smiling down upon him. Now if only they'd help him put up with the thorn in his side that took the form of an apathetic douche who had about as much personality as a soggy paper towel.

Well, at least he had Clyde. Because of their usually-opposite work schedules and the fact that Clyde hardly actually _worked_ compared to Craig's 40+ hours a week, Kyle found himself spending a lot more time with the ex-high school football star a lot more than he'd ever expected to in his lifetime.

Not that it was a bad thing, though; Clyde had always been a pretty nice guy when it came down to it, and he _did_ keep Kyle company whenever Craig was busy working, which was most of the time. Besides, even when he _was_ around, Craig never was much for being social, which led to a sort of unspoken but still obvious third rule: Do _no_t bother Craig. Kyle was more than alright with that one since he didn't want to talk to him anyway.

Clyde, always eager to please, never complained when Kyle asked to join him in his game, and didn't say a word when he switched the channel from ESPN to Syfy. Hell, he'd even humor Kyle in attempting to discuss the latest news of the world, even though he didn't have much of a clue what was actually going on most of the time. While he might not've been the brightest crayon in the box, Clyde was at least willing to adapt. He was also more than happy to spill all the details he knew about his broody best friend, which served as a great source of entertainment.

"So is Craig seeing anyone right now?" Kyle had asked one afternoon as he sat at the counter, watching Clyde whip up some salami sandwiches.

"You mean like, dating?"

"Obviously."

"Well, no. Craig doesn't usually… um, he's not really into relationships, I guess," Clyde answered slowly as he pushed a plate in front of Kyle. "I don't remember him ever dating anyone except for Tweek back in high school before we graduated."

"Craig and Tweek dated?"

"Yeah, but it didn't really work out because—well, it just didn't." Clyde had averted his eyes so fast that Kyle knew _something_ was up with him. "I think Craig used to sleep with some of his classmates from college every now and then 'cause he'd always come home really late, but I dunno. He never mentioned their names or anything. That was before he dropped out, though."

"Huh." Kyle had never thought of Craig to be someone who'd sleep around like that, let alone even initiate enough social interaction to warrant a one-night stand. However, Kyle was far more interested in this Tweek business. "Is he still like, into Tweek, or what?"

Clyde laughed. "No way, dude. Craig's totally ass-ramming gay."

"What?"

"I mean, he's not—ugh, nevermind. Just forget I even said that." Clyde was quick to change the subject, a light shade of red painting over his cheeks. "Bro, what do you want to drink?"

Kyle still didn't have a clue what Clyde had meant that day.

"Oh, these are almost spoiled!" Sheila complained, bringing Kyle back to reality. She was squeezing a grapefruit in the palm of her hand. "Goodness—you'd think they'd have fresher produce here, what with them charging an arm and a leg for a piece of fruit."

"There's always the fruit stand down the street." Kyle rolled his eyes. Living in New York, he knew better than to trust grocery store produce.

"Kyle, go and ask that young lady over there if they've got any fresher ones in the back, would you?"

Kyle frowned. "Seriously, Ma?"

"Yes! Your father specifically asked for me to pick some up. He's very invested in this new grapefruit diet that he learned about from the Marshes, you know. It's supposed to be very healthy!"

The grapefruit diet was definitely not anything new, but Kyle held his tongue for the sake of not starting an argument. "Fine, hold on," he said before heading off in the direction of a young blonde girl who was relabeling price stickers, all while grumbling to himself under his breath. Waiting outside the apartment for someone to get back was starting to seem like the much better option.

"Excuse me; I know this sounds like a totally stupid thing to ask, but my mother over there wants me to ask if you've got any other grapefruits in the back since the ones out here aren't '_fresh enough,'_ or whatever," Kyle said with a shrug, as if to let her know that he was totally against bothering her in the first place.

The girl—who couldn't have been older than sixteen—looked unsure about how to answer him. "Uh, well to tell you the truth, I don't really know," she answered sheepishly. "This isn't my department and I'm kind of new here. I'm actually—"

"Just shake your head and say no."

"I'm sorry?"

"Trust me, just do it; that way my mother can see and we can both move on with our lives."

The girl stared at him in confusion for a few long seconds before hesitantly doing what he asked.

"No, sir. We don't have any more… grapefruit?"

"Thanks. Sorry for bothering you."

Kyle turned on his heel and started back towards his mother, glad to have that nonsense over and dealt with. He was already preparing his best _'oh well' _shrug when someone from across the produce section caught his eye; Craig Tucker, standing in front of a promotional display with his arms crossed over his chest in contemplation.

"God dammit," Kyle mumbled quietly to himself when he saw the last person he'd planned on running into that afternoon. Wasn't having to deal with Craig back at the apartment already punishment enough? And shouldn't he have been working or something? No matter. It wasn't like Craig had noticed him anyway, so Kyle was in the clear. He just had to keep a good distance between them.

"What did the nice woman say, Kyle?" Sheila asked as soon as he was within earshot. Kyle rushed the last few steps to keep his mother from being so loud.

"They've only got what they have out here already."

"Well, that's a shame! I suppose Gerald will just have to make do with these," she said, then continued to gather a few of the less-damaged ones from the pile. Kyle took this moment to glance back over his shoulder. Craig was still standing in front of the display, this time with something in his hand as he looked it over intensely before putting it back on the shelf. Seconds later, Craig picked it back up, looked at it, and put it down again.

_Indecisive,_ Kyle thought as he watched him repeat this process two more times with the same exact item. He squinted to get a better look at whatever it was Craig was checking out, but from where he was standing it just looked like a small tan package. _Jesus Christ, he shops like my mom._

"Kyle, what are you staring at?" Sheila asked.

"Wha—ah, nothing." Kyle tried to keep his mother from following his line of sight, urging her to turn around and pushing her in the opposite direction. "Didn't you need to go to the bakery section? Come on."

"Oh look, Kyle! Isn't that Stanley over there?" she asked, pointing at an unaware Craig who was shaking whatever he was holding up and down. Sheila waved to get his attention. "Stan? Stanley Marsh!"

"Mom, wait—"

"Stanley, over here! It's us!"

It was too late. Craig was already scanning the store around him, his brows ever so slightly bunched together in what seemed like confusion. Kyle figured he was looking for Stan. Before long though, Craig seemed to remember the situation at hand because he slowly turned to find the two of them standing halfway across the store, one trying to shrink back into themselves while the other practically flailed. He made his way over slowly, as if he were unsure whether or not it was a good idea. It definitely wasn't, and Kyle would have tried to tell him telepathically if he weren't already so invested in trying to get his mother to shut up before _everyone_ started staring.

Before he knew it, Craig's shadow was looming over them.

"Hi."

"Well, isn't this just a treat—who'd of thought we'd run into each other here of all places!" Sheila said, throwing her arms out and grabbing Craig by the shoulders in some sort of weird embrace that was probably supposed to be endearing. Then she frowned. "But I thought Kyle said you couldn't join us because you were busy with something?"

"Yeah. _Working,_" Kyle said pointedly, glaring at Craig. "Shouldn't you be telecommuting today? Back at the _hotel?_"

Craig shrugged nonchalantly. "Finished early."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Hungry. Needed groceries."

"Order _room service_ then."

"Do I look like I'm made out of money, Broflovski?" Craig asked. "Besides, the pizza here is disgusting and no one else delivers."

Kyle had to keep from facepalming himself out of annoyance. Not only had Craig addressed him by his last name, but he also apparently had no clue how to be subtle. Thankfully, Sheila didn't seem to notice the slip up.

"How about you tag along with us since you're all finished, then? I could use another big strong man such as yourself to help bring in the groceries, and I'll whip up something quick for dinner tonight."

Kyle objected. "What? No, he can't—"

"Nonsense! I'm sure he'd rather have a hot home-cooked meal after working all day. Wouldn't you?" Sheila asked Craig, who didn't respond at first. He nodded after a hesitant couple of seconds. Kyle wondered if Clyde's questionable kitchen skills had anything to do with his decision. "I know my bubbee isn't much for cooking, so lord only knows the last time you ate something decent!"

"Ma!"

Sheila laughed. "Don't worry, Kyle; he knows I'm just poking some fun! Don't you, Stan?" She went to pat his cheek in her hand, only to find she could hardly reach. "Oh my—did you hit a sudden growth spurt or something? I don't remember you being so tall!"

"What."

"I could have sworn you and Kyle were almost the same height!"

"N-no, he's just—standing up straight, that's all. He's been working on having better posture," Kyle said, perhaps a bit too hastily. Sheila nodded and gave Craig a lookover.

"I see. Well, it definitely seems to be working!" She exclaimed before turning and starting off towards the next aisle. "Now come on, boys, let's hurry; they've got a sale on meats today!"

In hindsight, Kyle probably should have come up with a better excuse since slouching was hardly believable for an astonishing difference of nearly four inches, but his mother didn't question it. He was just thankful she didn't bring up the pencil marks on his bedroom door frame that held the truth up until at least age seventeen.

The two men soon found themselves tagging along behind Mrs. Broflovski, neither of them saying a word to each other. The air between the two had been tense since that afternoon at Tweek Bros, and it didn't seem like things were about to change anytime soon.

"You boys sure are quiet!" Sheila said after some time, peeking over her shoulder. "I can't recall either of you being so well behaved as children—what gives? Shouldn't you two love birds at least _look_ happy?"

Craig grunted and tipped his hat down, shoving his hands in his pockets as if that was supposed to be some sort of answer. Kyle took the opportunity to examine him with a perked brow, curiously glancing back over at him every few seconds. Craig was quick to catch on.

"_What."_

"What?"

"You keep looking at me. Why."

Kyle scoffed. "Don't go getting full of yourself, dude. I wasn't looking at you—"

"I'm not your dude."

"I was just wondering; what's the deal with you and that hat? You've been wearing it like, non-stop since we had dinner with my parents."

"What's it matter to you."

"It doesn't. Just didn't expect for you to end up liking it so much, I guess." Kyle shrugged and looked away. "Stan definitely didn't."

Craig came to a grinding halt. "Huh? What are you talking about? What does Marsh have to do with it?"

"Because it's his hat?"

"Then why was it in _your_ closet?" he asked accusingly. Kyle suddenly remembered that he hadn't told him exactly where the hat had come from, instead choosing to assure Craig that it wasn't important at the time. "Well, I mean, it's pretty normal to leave stuff at your boyfriend's house, isn't it?" Kyle said as if the answer should have been obvious. For some reason it only seemed to make Craig even more upset. Kyle sighed. "It was something I bought for him forever ago but he didn't like it, so I ended up holding onto it for so long that I guess I forgot I even had it. But hey, if you like it that much, you can keep it—it looks a lot better on you than it does me, after all." He chuckled, but Craig apparently didn't find him nearly as funny. With a clenched jaw and cold dark eyes, Craig's intimidating stare was starting to make him uncomfortable.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Without a single word, Craig tore the hat from his head and threw it up and over into the next aisle with as much animosity as one could possibly have for a few pieces of sewn-together fabric. Kyle could have sworn he heard Craig mumble something while he was at it, but he couldn't be sure.

"What the hell was that all about?" Kyle asked.

"Boys, keep up! I don't want to lose you in here," Sheila called back to them. "Oh, Stanley, sweetheart, if you could reach up there and grab me a few boxes, that'd be lovely!"

"Fuck off, Broflovski," Craig spat before leaving Kyle to give his mother a hand.

Kyle shook his head as he tried to keep his cool. No matter what he did, he just couldn't seem to win with Craig.

* * *

Since Craig had driven, Kyle ended up riding back to his parents' house with him in the most awkward silence.

"What a mess!" Sheila had gasped when she saw Craig's car parked at the bottom of the driveway. She ran a finger through the thick layer of dirt on the trunk and scowled. "Please don't tell me the airport actually rented it out to you like this—and such an old model! You'd think they'd put someone so successful as yourself into something a bit more classy."

"What—"

"This was all they had on such short notice," Kyle cut in before Craig could put his foot in his mouth. "We'll definitely be writing to corporate about it, though. Right, Stan?"

Craig had side-eyed him.

Kyle watched as Craig lazily trudged past him with his fists full of bags, only to disappear through the front door for the umpteenth time. His mother had gone way overboard with the grocery shopping, and he was starting to feel dizzy after the countless trips back and forth. He soldiered on though, trying to keep a close trail behind Craig with as many bags as he could manage himself.

"Move," Craig demanded when he turned around to find Kyle blocking his path.

"Oh—um, sorry," Kyle stammered, temporarily dancing in place, unsure whether he should step to the left or to the right. The decision was made easier for him when Craig simply shouldered past him, pushing Kyle into the fridge door with a thud. For a second he felt a bit out of it, but quickly shook it off.

Kyle watched him round the corner out of the room and pushed himself back up with a sigh. Had this been any other situation he'd of been absolutely livid—after all, who did Craig think he was?—but for some reason, he wasn't. He wasn't mad at Craig for being a complete asshole, because right now, he was obviously doing it for a reason. He was—

_Hurting. Yeah, that's it._ Kyle nodded to himself. Craig's attitude at the coffee shop after Kyle had questioned his education choices, his little outburst not too long ago over Stan's dumb hat... it was clear as day now that he thought about it. Craig was obviously insecure about this whole ordeal, and, well, who could blame him? It was impossible for anyone else to even _begin_ to compare to Stan Marsh, let alone someone like Craig.

"Are you going to just stand there all day or what." Kyle was brought back to reality when Craig's nasally voice cut in through his thoughts. Kyle stepped aside while Craig dropped another load of groceries onto the counter next to the others.

"Hey, Craig." Kyle put down the bags he'd been holding all along. Craig ignored him and left. "Craig? Craig, wait!" Kyle called out as he ran to catch up to him. It wasn't until he had him pinned between the open trunk and himself that Craig finally had no choice but to acknowledge him.

"_Craig!_"

"What."

"What do you mean, '_what?'_ I'm trying to talk to you!" Kyle shouted.

"Then talk. Otherwise, shut up and let's get this over with. I want to go home," Craig said as he loaded up his arms with a few twelve-packs of soda. Kyle did the same, instead using the designated built in handles like a civilized human being. "Well. You said you wanted to talk."

"Yeah well, I don't know if I actually want to anymore, now that my senses are coming back to me," Kyle spat heatedly. Craig shrugged and began to head for the house, but Kyle jumped in front of him.

"_Fucking hell, _Broflovski_, would you just get_—"

"Look. I'm sorry, okay?" Kyle finally managed to say. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess. I know this whole situation isn't exactly ideal to you, and maybe I've said a few less than choice things this past week, and I'm just—I'm really sorry."

Craig's shoulders relaxed, but he still seemed a bit standoffish.

"Less than choice things?"

"You know… like what I said the other day at the coffee shop. Remember?"

"Oh."

"About film school?"

"Yeah, okay."

"How it was pointless, and I didn't understand why you'd even waste your time—"

"_I get it_," Craig groaned.

"Right. Well, I'm especially sorry about that. I… didn't mean it." It took every ounce of strength Kyle could muster to force that last line out. He had never been good at lying, despite the fact that he was a pretty successful junior attorney, but he knew if he wanted to smooth things over with Craig that he'd have to just suck it up and deal with it. "It was a dumb thing for me to have said."

Craig eyed him warily, giving no sort of indication that he'd accepted the apology; but hey, at least he didn't walk away, right? Kyle thought that had to count for something. After a while, though, Kyle began to feel anxious under Craig's dissecting stare.

"So… um, Craig? What do you say?"

Craig took a deep breath before giving the slightest nod possible.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Apology accepted. For now at least," Craig clarified. "Now c'mon. I still want to go home."

"Oh, right. Okay," Kyle agreed, then started to sluggishly tail Craig towards the front door. While Craig still seemed upset, Kyle knew that his plan had worked perfectly; and being extra careful not to call him "dude" or let Stan's name slip into the conversation would pay off handsomely.

"Wait. Hold on," Kyle said, stopping in the middle of the yard. "Something's wrong."

"What are you talking about." Craig turned around in time on the porch to see Kyle trying to free up one hand, blinking like he was trying to clear his vision after waking up. "Hey. _Hey_, _Broflovski_."

"I said just—just give me a second."

"It's been like, five."

Kyle ignored his sarcasm. "I don't feel too good," he mumbled, swaying a bit. Craig bounded down the steps and hurried over to an obviously sick-looking Kyle.

"You're sweating really bad," Craig pointed out in that dull, lifeless voice of his. "Don't tell me you're actually worn out from carrying groceries. You've barely even lifted a finger."

"It's not that."

"Weak."

"I'm dizzy. I think my blood sugar is low."

Craig straightened up.

"Blood sugar? What?"

"Kyle, sweetheart, are you alright? What's taking you two so long out here?" Sheila called out as she emerged onto the front porch. When she saw her son, she gasped. "Kyle, what's wrong? Kyle?"

"Blood sugar. I need to sit down," Kyle said, swaying a bit. "I need—"

"Here. Give me those." Craig managed to get a hand free and tossed Kyle's two twelve-packs on top of the three he had stacked up in his arm. Leaning back to keep them from falling over, he gave Kyle a nod forward. "Go inside."

Kyle stood there.

"I said go inside."

"I'll follow you."

"Are you fucking crazy. I'm not letting you walk behind me." Craig scoffed. "I'm keeping an eye on you. I can't catch you if you fall back there."

Kyle furrowed his brows as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "But your hands are full."

"You think I give a shit about that? Now _move_," Craig commanded, kicking Kyle's boot in an attempt to get him to start walking. It worked.

Craig stayed close behind, especially when Kyle took much longer than necessary to get up four or five steps. Sheila complimented Craig on how much of a gentleman he was as the two of them walked past her. Kyle was too out of it to react, but he definitely didn't miss Craig's annoyed grumbling.

Kyle fell back into the nearest chair as soon as they came into the dining room. Craig stopped as well, dropping the boxes of soda on the table and towering over Kyle who had his head in his hands, hunched forward. Kyle groaned in discomfort.

"What do I do."

"Huh?" Kyle asked weakly, looking up. Craig rolled his eyes and rushed off towards the kitchen without answering. He returned moments later with an unopened bag of sugar that Sheila had purchased earlier and a spoon, which he slammed onto the table in front of Kyle. "What's this?"

"What does it look like, dumbass. It's sugar." Craig tore a hole into the top. "Eat it."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Kyle asked. He picked up the spoon and turned it over between his fingers. He frowned. "Where did you even get this? It's dirty."

"You said your blood sugar was low. Wouldn't eating sugar fix that?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Okay then. So shut up and eat this before you die or something." Craig pushed the sugar closer.

"What? I'm not gonna die—" Kyle complained as he shoved it away. "_Yes_, my blood sugar is low, and _yes_, I need to eat sugar to bring it up, but that doesn't mean actual straight sugar!"

Craig sighed impatiently. "So then, what."

"I dunno. Candy, soda; stuff that has sugar _in _it," Kyle explained. "If I seriously sat here and shoved multiple spoonfuls of this into my face, then I might _actually_ die."

As if a light had gone off in his head, Craig fished out a small crumpled and folded over tan package from his pocket; the same one he'd been looking at when Kyle spotted him in the store. He didn't recall seeing Craig pay for it.

"Here, eat these," Craig ordered as he dumped the contents of the bag onto the table in front of him. Individually wrapped pieces of caramel bounced around his fingers.

"Seriously, Craig? Caramels?" Kyle asked incredulously as he picked one up and examined it. They were the good ones, the ones that sat out in his lobby's candy bowl at his firm, about four or five dollars a bag. "You stole _caramels_? What are you, twelve?"

"Do you have any idea how expensive those things are. If you think I'm paying that much for a bag of fucking candy, you're about as dumb as you are annoying."

"Then get something cheaper!"

"I said eat them!" Craig suddenly shouted, matching Kyle's volume for once; it startled Kyle enough to shut him up. Craig ripped open the cardboard from a twelve-pack and popped the top on one of the cans. He slid it gently towards Kyle as well.

Kyle made quick work of the candy wrappers and popped a few in his mouth, eyeing the can of Dr. Pepper with unease. He wanted to tell Craig that the soda would be too much, but he didn't think it'd be a good idea to make him raise his voice again. The way Craig was watching him with that clinical stare was nerve-racking, so he took a couple of sips to appease him.

After some time spent in silence filled with Kyle's chewing, Craig spoke up.

"So you're diabetic."

"Yeah."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, it's not like it's supposed to be obvious or anything." Kyle shrugged. He'd never really mentioned the fact that he was diabetic when they were younger since he didn't think it was important. "It's a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes, but it's totally manageable."

"Then what the hell was that all about?"

"Well I haven't eaten yet today. And you're not supposed to taken insulin without eating..." Kyle trailed off in thought as he tried to remember. He'd been rushed out of the apartment that morning before he really had a chance to go about his normal daily routine, but he didn't want to make Craig feel bad by bringing it up. "I think it's just because I'm hungry, that's all."

Craig pushed more caramels towards him. He shook his head.

"This is too much sugar. I need actual food."

"How could you forget to eat," Craig asked, sounding more irritated than he had any right to be. "Like—_Jesus Christ_, Kyle, are you stupid or something? What the fuck."

"What, I'm not _'Broflovski_' now?"

"_Fucker—_"

"It's not that big of a deal. I know how to take care of myself," Kyle told him, trying his hardest to bite his tongue. He wasn't sure how he felt about Craig calling him by his first name. It didn't feel right. "I don't need you of all people to scold me like I'm some—hey, where are you going?"

"I'm going to find your insulin."

"I don't want to open a new vial when I have one at the apartment already," Kyle shouted to him. He could hear Craig cease his rummaging through the contents of the fridge. It's not like he would have found it anyways since Kyle kept his spare vial upstairs in his bedroom mini-fridge. "Besides, I don't have my glucose monitor with me here; _that's_ what I need. The last thing I need right now is more insulin. Not until after I eat, anyway."

Craig came back, this time with a small plastic tupperware filled with leftover lasagna. He dropped it on the table in front of Kyle with a fork that was, this time, thankfully clean.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Craig asked. Kyle nodded. Craig held his gaze, as if trying to decide whether or not he could trust him. When Kyle didn't back down, Craig forced out a signature World's Biggest Sigh™ and dropped his shoulders.

"Alright, fine. But we're leaving and grabbing something to eat as soon as I'm done with the last of the groceries," he said.

"_You're_ done with the groceries? What's that supposed to mean?" Kyle asked, starting to push himself up from his seat.

"You're staying in here. Sit down."

"Excuse me, but I think I can—"

"I said sit _down_, Broflovski," Craig commanded sternly. The authoritative base in his voice resonated throughout the room enough to send shivers down Kyle's spine.

"Fine. Whatever." Kyle shrugged, falling back into his seat and taking a sudden interest in the peeling wallpaper across the room. He refused to look at Craig and give him the satisfaction of thinking that he cared what he said, because he definitely didn't.

Kyle rested his head on the table when he was sure that Craig had left the room. He wasn't even feeling all that dizzy anymore; just annoyed, and maybe a bit peckish. His stomach audibly growled when he looked at the cold lasagna in front of him. He took a few bites to calm his rumbling stomach before ultimately deciding to leave it, not wanting to give Craig the idea that he was admitting defeat.

Who the hell did Craig think he was, anyway? He was getting a little ahead of himself, thinking that he could tell Kyle what to do. Nobody pushed Kyle around, especially not some deadbeat who hadn't done a single thing to better themselves in the last ten years. Hell, he didn't even let _Stan _talk to him like that; not that he really ever did. Stan had a habit of passive-aggressively arguing, turning issues around to play the victim when things got sour. It was annoying at worst, sure, but he never actually raised his voice like Craig had, let alone over something like forgetting to take his insulin.

With Stan in mind, Kyle took his phone out and scrolled through his incoming calls log. Still, not a single one was from Stan, and the only text he had was a photo from Kenny of his daughter holding up some kind of Science for Kids kit with a smile, the message "She's so excited lol glad she got her mom's genes cause otherwise she'd prob build a meth lab" beneath it. Kyle cracked a smile at the thought, but he couldn't help but be upset about Stan not replying to his own sent texts. Plus, wasn't he supposed to have called, like, forever ago? What gives?

Kyle's pity party was interrupted when the front door slammed open and Craig barged into the room with his arms full of grocery bags, the last couple of soda cases stacked on top of one another against his chest. Kyle watched him stumble past to dump it all onto the kitchen counter.

"Let's go," Craig ordered, coming back out to the dining room. He glanced at the lasagna that Kyle had hardly touched but said nothing. "Are you okay to walk."

"Seriously, I'm _fine_."

"Alright. I already told your mom what's up, so let's go before she decides to keep us held hostage here or some crazy shit. No offense but I hate this place."

_Trust me. You're not the only one,_ Kyle thought to himself as he followed Craig out to the car, where Craig was nice enough to open the passenger door for him. Why was Craig so concerned for his well being all of a sudden? Even though Kyle guessed that keeping him alive long enough to at least get his money was enough of an incentive, it was still weird.

He watched Craig from the corner of his eye almost the entire ride back to the apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

If there was one thing about Craig that annoyed Kyle more than anything, it was probably the fact that he drove like an old man.

"Oh my God, Craig—you drive so fucking slow," Kyle had complained from the passenger seat on the ride back to the apartment from Subway. He wasn't sure whether or not Craig was _trying_ to be annoying, or if the sort of natural laziness about him simply just extended to his driving style, too. "You _are_ aware that's a green light, correct? Well, not for much longer at the rate you're going, anyway."

"You're more than welcome to get out and walk," Craig offered as they inched up towards the light, now yellow. He kept his sights on the pothole-ridden road ahead, not once glancing over at Kyle.

"I'd probably make it back before you."

"Do you wanna make a bet."

"Sure." Kyle accepted the challenge with raised brows; but when he leaned forward to open the door, the automatic locks jammed into place. "Um?" He tried again, unlocking it first, only to have the same thing happen two more times. "Craig, what the hell?"

"You're not walking."

"You basically just told me to!"

"No I didn't."

"Yes you—whatever, just drive faster!"

"I'm not speeding."

"You're not even doing the speed _limit_." Kyle huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, focusing on the music that Craig kept turned down so low; the Smiths. Kyle remembered Stan mentioning them during his goth phase. "Wake me up when we get back to your place. Preferably before sunrise."

It took twice as long as it should have taken to get back to the apartment. Thankfully, Kyle didn't have to wait for Craig to take his sweet time climbing the stairs since the front door was already unlocked. He made a beeline for his suitcase.

"Oh, hey man!" Clyde called out, standing in the middle of the hallway in a pair of red Coca-Cola print boxers and a baggy white t-shirt. He had a half-eaten turkey dog in one hand. Charlie was on crumb patrol. "You just get back?"

"Yeah. Craig's here too—_somewhere._" Kyle looked over his shoulder once he'd found his blood glucose monitor. The front door was wide open with still no sign of Craig. "How was work?"

"Work?" Clyde blinked. "I didn't work today."

"You left this morning?"

"Yeah, but I didn't go to work."

"Then where did you go?" Kyle asked, situating himself on a chair at the counter. The only time Clyde left that early in the morning was when he had to open up shop, but now that he thought about it, the shop had been closed for inventory those past two days.

"It's not—uh, well I had to do something. Important."

"At five in the morning?"

"I said it was important." Clyde clearly didn't want to talk about why he was sneaking around, so Kyle dropped the subject. He grabbed an alcohol pad from his small medicine pouch and prepared a finger. "What are you—"

"Move," Craig ordered, suddenly showing up out of nowhere and shoving past Clyde to get to the fridge. Clyde, looking like he'd just seen a ghost, dramatically grabbed at his shirt over his heart.

"Dude, warn a bro before you do that!" he shouted. Craig ignored him, fervently pushing around the contents of the fridge. "Like, do you _want_ to get punched in the face? Cause I totally almost just punched you in the face."

"I don't see it."

"See what?"

"Kyle, where is it. I don't—wait, nevermind." Craig straightened back up to his towering self, holding _something_ wrapped in what had to be almost a whole roll of Scotch tape. The slight lines between his brows gave his confusion away. "Why."

"Because it keeps it safe. Those vials break real easily, you know," Kyle explained, meeting Craig at the fridge to take it away from him. It wasn't something he usually did, but Clyde spent a good deal of his time shuffling around the fridge and it was only a matter of _when_ it'd end up busted on the kitchen tile. Craig didn't seem too crazy about that answer but said nothing more. Clyde, on the other hand, was a different story.

"What keeps what safe? What breaks easily? What's that?"

"It's just medicine."

"Broflovski has diabetes."

"Whoa, for real?" Clyde's eyes widened in shock. "Holy shit. Since when?"

"Since forever…?" Kyle sighed. "Look, it's not a big deal—"

"You're not gonna like, die or anything, right?"

"Shut up, Clyde," Craig said. "He's not gonna die, unless you keep asking dumb questions."

"Your question wasn't dumb, Clyde," Kyle assured him, even though it sort of was. He fished the rest of the necessary supplies from his medicine pouch and set them on the table next to his insulin before resuming his original process of cleaning a fingertip. Standing next to him, Craig was visibly growing impatient.

"Aren't you gonna use it or something."

"What?"

"The insulin. You inject it, don't you."

"Yeah, but I need to check my blood sugar first. Otherwise I wouldn't know how much I need, or if I even need it." Kyle motioned to the small electronic monitor before picking up the already-loaded lancing device. He pricked his finger with a start. Craig watched, unwavering.

"You have to do that every time?" he asked, sounding oddly intrigued. Kyle nodded. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really. I'm used to it. Just the anticipation gets me sometimes. It's quick." Kyle dabbed his blood onto a strip. After three or four seconds the monitor beeper. "Alright, it's not that bad. Probably could've done without the chips, though."

Craig looked away when Kyle lifted his shirt and cleaned a spot with another alcohol pad before carefully drawing a few milliliters of insulin. Right before he stuck himself, Clyde stopped him.

"Can I do it?" he asked. "I wanna do it."

"Um…" Kyle looked from Clyde to the side of Craig's reddened face, then back to Clyde. It wasn't that he had a problem with Clyde sticking him with the needle—it was pretty straightforward, almost impossible to mess up—but, well. _Clyde_. "I—"

"No," Craig said.

Clyde pouted. "Aw, why not?"

"Because I'm doing it," Craig said, stealing the needle from between Kyle's fingers without warning. One would have been greatly appreciated. "You'd probably manage to stab him through a main artery or something."

"No I wouldn't!"

"Wait—_you're_ giving it to me?" Kyle balked.

"Is that a problem."

It most certainly _was_ a problem; but Craig was the one holding the uncapped syringe, and probably also the one harboring some sort of deranged sociopathic tendencies, so Kyle wasn't exactly in the best position to complain.

"Whatever."

"Is there somewhere else I can inject this other than… _there._"

Kyle dropped his shirt and jutted out an arm with the sleeve rolled up instead. "Pinch the skin here."

"Why?"

"Because it'll hurt less when you stick me."

"Oh." Craig did as he was told. Kyle tensed under his touch. "Okay. On the count of three," he started. "One."

" —Hey!" Kyle yelped. "That wasn't three!"

Craig recapped the syringe and dropped it into an empty 20oz Mountain Dew bottle that was sitting on top of the trash before turning back to Kyle who was examining his arm with a frown.

"Did it hurt?"

"No. It stung a little."

"...Sorry," Craig apologized, an uncanny sense of sincerity weaved into it. "I probably pushed too hard."

"No, you did fine. Next time you'll do better."

They looked at each other.

"Um, hello? What about me? When can I try?" Clyde cut through the awkward tension that was quickly starting to build up in the room. Kyle had forgotten he was even there.

Everyone's attention snapped to Kyle's phone when it started ring.

"Oh, I gotta take this," Kyle said hurriedly, because it was Stan's picture that was plastered on the incoming call screen. He pushed past Craig and Clyde urgently to get somewhere—anywhere—so that he could talk in private.

"Whoa, no. Broflovski—hey!"

_Slam_.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Kyle. What's up?"

"Nothing. Bored as usual." Kyle shrugged as he fell back onto a bed. It seemed like it'd been so long since he'd heard Stan's voice that he just couldn't help but grin. Still, he couldn't forget that he was a little upset with him. "Whatever happened to calling me at the laundromat?"

"Huh?"

"You were supposed to call me last Sunday."

"Oh. I must've forgot," Stan said sheepishly. "Sorry, dude. Stayed late at work."

Stan didn't work Sundays, but Kyle didn't feel like arguing. "Well you could've at least answered my calls."

"Shit, I must've missed them."

"My texts, too?"

Stan sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, but work's been kicking my ass lately; I haven't really had time to keep up with my phone. Besides, you know how I am with that piece of shit anyway." He laughed, and Kyle couldn't complain since Stan still had the same cheap phone from about seven years ago, the kind with no touchscreen or qwerty keyboard. He hardly even carried it on him. However:

"But you haven't been to work all week."

"Yes I—what are you talking about?"

"I called your job yesterday because I was worried. Your boss said you put in some of your vacation time."

"Oh… you heard about that?"

"You seriously thought I wouldn't find out?" Kyle rolled his eyes. He wasn't upset though, because this obviously meant that Stan had been planning something. "So how long did you take off? Does this mean you're finally on your way? You should have just told me; you know I hate surprises."

"I actually called to ask about something," Stan said, avoiding the question. "The other day I got a message alert from our bank. Did you withdraw, like, eight-hundred dollars?"

_Boom boom boom boom boom!_

_"Hey! Get out of there!"_

Shit.

"Yeah? It was for wedding stuff."

"I thought we agreed to pay with credit for all that?"

"Well this place only accepted cash. It was a down payment—for the venue." Kyle laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Why did Stan have to ask about it now of all times? "Does it really matter anyways?"

"That's kind of a lot of money for a downpayment, don't you think?"

_Boom boom boom boom boom!_

"Not really. You're just cheap."

"And also, my mom texted me too. Something about me missing dinner? It was weird."

"Ma thought it'd be nice to have dinner with your parents, that's all."

"Did you tell them I was sick or something?"

"Probably. Yeah. When they asked why you weren't with me."

_Boom boom boom boom boom!_

_"I swear to God, Broflovski, if you don't get the fuck out of there, not only will I kick you out, I'll kick your ass!"_

"Is now not a good time to talk? What's going on over there?" Stan sounded worried. "Is everything alright?"

"What? No, it's fine. Ike's just being an asshole. You know how he is," Kyle assured him. He was starting to break into a nervous sweat.

_"Broflovski!"_

"Shut up, Ike! I'm trying to talk to Stan!" Kyle yelled at the door, hoping that Craig would get the hint and stop being an inconsiderate jerk for maybe, like, ten seconds. He didn't. Instead, the pounding ceased while some sort of scratching sound started instead.

"Ike sounds… different."

"Well you haven't seen him in a while."

"I mean, he sounds _really_ different."

_"I don't give a shit who you're talking to! Get the fuck out of my room!"_

"Holy fuck, Craig, would you just stop!" Kyle shouted.

"Craig? Craig Tucker? What are you doing with him?" Stan asked. "Wait, are you at his _house?_"

"No? Its—it's nothing, Stan. He's just helping with me something," Kyle tried to explain, mentally smacking himself. He thought he'd hit the mute button. He seriously just fucked up big time.

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line, as if the gears in Stan's head were turning and he was slowly piecing things together. It couldn't have been too hard for even him to figure out.

"Please tell me this is some sort of joke."

_"Open this door right now!"_

"Is that what you did with the money?" Stan asked. When Kyle didn't answer, he scoffed. "I can't believe this. No, scratch that. You know what? This is _totally_ something you'd do."

"Stan…"

"I think we should see other people," he said, and then before Kyle could interject, "I've been thinking about it for a while, actually, but now I'm definitely sure."

Kyle was pretty sure he could hear his whole world crashing down around him because this was _not_ supposed to happen.

"Why would you suggest something like that? That's ridiculous!"

"I think it's a good idea. We both could use the space, and the time to think." Stan said as if it were nothing. He was oddly calm about it all, as if he'd been planning this from the very beginning. Had he? "I get to focus on work and clear my head and you get to play out this weird fantasy thing you've apparently got going on with, uh… Craig Tucker."

"I said it's not like that!"

"Okay, I believe you. But like, I still think we should see other people, alright?"

The bedroom door suddenly popped open and slammed into the wall with a bang before Kyle had a chance to say no. Craig was standing in the doorway looking about ready to kill someone as he slid his debit card back into his wallet.

"What the hell did I say about staying out of my room!" he barked, tearing Kyle up and off his bed by the shoulder of his shirt. Kyle's phone slipped from his hand and slid across the floor.

"Hey—!"

"What the fuck did I say!"

"I was on the phone with Stan!" Kyle shouted, trying to pull out of Craig's grip to pick up his phone. Craig was not about to let that happen, apparently; he yanked Kyle towards the door instead, forcing the both of them out of the room.

"What are you doing? I need my phone!"

"Too bad," Craig told him and forcefully pushed him down onto the couch. When Kyle tried to stand up in protest he did it again. Charlie watched idly from the corner of the room where he was gnawing on a stuffed animal. "I've told you over a _hundred times_ that my room was off limits, Broflovski. Now give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn't kick your ass out of this apartment right now."

Kyle folded his arms across his chest and looked off to the side. Craig, clearly not too pleased with Kyle's act of defiance, was most likely about to remind him exactly of his place in that apartment when a third person cleared their throat. On the other end of the couch sat Clyde, watching the both of them with worried brows.

"Uh, why are you kicking Kyle out? Is everything alright with you guys?" he asked nervously. Clyde was always one to shy away from conflict, and now was no exception. "Hey, how about I make us something to eat? I bet that'll make everyone feel better."

"Now's not the time, Clyde," Craig said, sounding exasperated.

"Why not? I'll make grilled cheese—on wheat! That way it'll be healthy," Clyde urged, now grinning. He gave his belly a pat. "It might not sound like a lot, but I've already lost like ten pounds this year just from watching what I put in my mouth."

"W_atching_ what you put in your mouth isn't your problem."

"You're on a diet?" Kyle asked, his interest piqued. Clyde nodded. "Why? It's not like you need to lose weight or anything. You look fine how you are. Didn't I tell you that before?"

"I know, but Bebe thought it'd be a good idea."

"Bebe? You're _still_ dating her?" Kyle gawked, because he'd thought those two were over and done with after his first year at Columbia. At least, that's what it seemed like, what with Bebe hanging off pretty much any guy with two legs and their last name on the back of a jersey. Bebe had tagged along and shared an apartment with Wendy, putting herself through beauty school and working under the table at a nearby smokeshop. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't heard much from Bebe for some time.

"Not really? I mean, it's kinda complicated." Clyde shrugged. "She told me that she came back to South Park for me, you know."

"She came back to South Park because she's _trash_," Craig interjected.

Even though the last thing Kyle wanted to do was agree with Craig, he couldn't help but do so.

"Yeah, dude. No offense or anything, but I'm pretty sure Bebe's slept with like, upwards of twelve different guys while she was in New York with us," Kyle told him. "And uh, I think she came back because she couldn't afford it out there? That's what Wendy told me, anyway." Not to mention the pregnancy scare. He'd spent a good deal of his time holed up in the campus library with Wendy whenever they had to study for an upcoming exam, so he knew more than he needed to know about her roommate and her escapades. "You really ought to find someone better."

"Yeah. Maybe someone like _Stan,_" Craig mumbled. "I'm sure Broflovski could help you out."

The rage that had ever so slightly begun to subside with his attention drawn to Clyde's problems rather than his own quickly began to rise and bubble over once more with Craig's snide comment, forcing Kyle to stand up from his seat. He'd finally had enough.

"Fuck you, Craig!" he spat furiously, and then again for effect: "Fuck you!"

"Oh, go whine to Marsh. I don't care."

"Maybe I _would_, if he didn't just break up with me because _you_ don't know how to act like a civilized human being and apparently have some kind of hate boner for making my life a living hell. So thanks for that!" Kyle shouted. "Would it have killed you to give me just _five_ minutes of privacy without banging on the door like the fucking police? Was that _really_ necessary?"

Craig frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well. I told you to stay out of my room. So—"

"Thanks to you and your big mouth, now Stan probably thinks we're fucking or whatever._ God_," Kyle continued, forcing out a fake laugh. He shook his head. "I never wanted this. I never _wanted_ to get stuck with you. You're literally the worst—the absolute fucking _worst_ person I've ever known, and I cannot _wait_ til I can get the hell out of this goddamn stupid apartment and away from you forever. So seriously, _Tucker_, go _fuck_ yourself!"

And like a tornado of hellfire, Kyle stormed out of the apartment without giving Craig so much as a second to even try and attempt to feed him another line about how it was his own fault. Charlie dropped his chew toy and chased after Kyle, just barely missing the front door being slammed shut on his tail.

Craig stood there, chewing the inside of his cheek and mulling over Kyle's words in his head. He knew he'd fucked up—that much he was sure of. But how badly?

"So, um. Wow, I have no idea what just happened," Clyde said, breaking the silence. "Did Kyle say Stan broke up with him? Because of _you_? I didn't even know they were still together."

Shit. Craig had forgotten that Clyde wasn't in on the whole thing. How much did he know? Apparently not much, he figured, since he didn't even know they were together, let alone _engaged. _

"What did you even do?"

Craig groaned and buried his face in one of his hands as the gravity of the whole situation seemed to bear down on his shoulders all at once. He might have just seriously ruined Kyle's life. He was a total asshole, and he was going to be out five-thousand dollars because of it. Pacific Beach seemed farther away than ever now.

"I've gotta go."

"Go where? Are you gonna go find Kyle?"

Craig rushed through the apartment, gathering up Kyle's phone from his bedroom floor and lacing up his worn Converse in the hall. He grabbed Charlie's red leash that hung over an island chair in the kitchen before heading for the door.

"Are you gonna go find Kyle?" Clyde tried again.

"I hate everything," was Craig's answer.

It wasn't hard to find Kyle since he didn't get very far; he was sitting at the top of the stairs with one arm wrapped around his knees, the other one fumbling with… something. Upon closer inspection, Craig could see that he was mindlessly stroking Charlie's ears, who had his furry head in Kyle's lap.

Part of him contemplated leaving—he could just turn around and march right back into the apartment, because seriously, was it worth the trouble to put up with all of this? But he couldn't do it; not when he knew his dog was out here, and there was a very real chance that Kyle wouldn't be coming back. With the way Charlie turned his head in an attempt to urge Kyle to scratch at his neck, Craig wouldn't put it past him to follow after Kyle.

_Traitor_, he thought as he inched closer to the two of them. He cleared his throat to let Kyle know that, hey, he was right behind him, but it either didn't work or Kyle just didn't care.

"Hey." No answer. Craig noticed the way Kyle hunched in on himself. It wasn't just the shadows from the tall pine trees that swayed over the apartment building playing tricks on him; he knew Kyle had heard him that time. With his patience starting to wane, he nudged Kyle's side with the tip of his shoe.

"Leave me alone," Kyle complained half-heartedly, shoving Craig's foot away with enough force to make him stumble. Craig quickly recovered and did it one more time. "Fucking—stop that!"

"I'm sorry," Craig said, as if he had a surplus of apologies to throw around and that was only but one of them. That was enough. He'd apologized, and now they could get over this dumb little spat. He handed Kyle his cell phone to seal the deal. "Let's go back inside."

"I'm not going _anywhere_ with you."

"Look, I said I was sorry."

"And I told you to go fuck yourself," Kyle snapped, glaring up at Craig. His tone was way too somber for Craig's comfort; it was so much easier to deal with an angry Kyle than a defeated one. "Besides. You're not sorry."

"I said—"

"That doesn't mean shit and you know it. You're only _'sorry_' because you want to make sure you'll still get your money so you can fuck off to Nevada or wherever the hell you want to go so badly. So don't act like you give a shit. You don't care about anyone but yourself, and _that's_ why you're still stuck in this shithole town. It's where you belong."

Craig wanted so badly to correct him, to have the last word, to wipe that _ridiculous_ look of self-pity off his stupid fucking face and maybe even punch him in it for the most pretentious eye-roll he ever did see. But Kyle had a way of unintentionally cutting people down to size with the truth, and now Craig couldn't move his lips, not even to issue another half-baked apology. His tongue seemed to be seared to the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched, palms a little more damp than usual. All he could do was stand over Kyle and have his existence ignored, watching as he flitted around on his phone.

This was worse than the time they'd gotten paired up back in eighth grade when Craig slipped and called Kyle a kike; he didn't even know what the word meant, he'd only heard it from Cartman, but it had dire repercussions that left him with a bloody nose and a loose bottom tooth. Did Kyle remember that, because Craig definitely did. He couldn't look him in the eye for two days straight out of a mix of fear, contempt, and an uneasy feeling of arousal. That was what had started this whole mess.

Two missed calls and a lengthy text from Stan that he couldn't quite make out was all that Craig could see from over Kyle's shoulder. Was there a voicemail? Probably not, because Kyle didn't check. Or maybe Kyle just didn't want him to hear. Maybe Kyle was waiting for him to leave. That idea hurt for some reason, but not nearly as much as when Kyle dropped his phone onto the step beneath him and buried his head in his arms. Charlie licked at Kyle's ear, only to be shrugged off.

That damn dog had been at Kyle's side since he came to that apartment; it was annoying to say the least. Craig hated that Charlie was always practically in his lap—as if he were enjoying being around Kyle more so than the person who actually took him home from the pound and fed him—but all Craig could think of at that moment was how dogs supposedly had a great judge of character, and if Charlie having his head up Kyle's ass meant anything, then, well. Then again dogs also had a keen sense for stress, and if stress took on a human form, Kyle would be it.

"So did Stan really break up with you."

Kyle just nodded. Craig sighed and fumbled with a loose string at the bottom of his shirt. "I'm really sorry," he said, managing to squeeze out an honest apology after some time. "I mean it, okay? I'm sorry."

Kyle finally looked up at him, his usually fiery eyes full of what seemed to be doubt and hesitation more than actual anger now. Craig couldn't figure out if Kyle was trying to decide whether to kill him or not. Still, he took a chance and jerked his head towards the parking lot.

"Come on. Let's go for a walk."


	6. Chapter 6

It was late and starting to smell like rain, so they didn't go too far. They ended up at Stark's Pond since it was only a stone's throw from the apartment complex. It was surprisingly desolate, even for a Thursday evening.

"Remember when everyone would hang out here after school?" Craig said as he kicked a few pebbles. "Like this was the coolest place on earth or some shit."

"It was the coolest place in South Park," Kyle said. "Still is."

"That's just sad."

"This _town_ is sad."

Something hot and malicious burned in Craig's throat for a second as he remembered Kyle's earlier words, about how he belonged in South Park—_this shithole town_—but he swallowed it down and kept his mouth shut because as much as he wanted to say something, now was not the time. So he opted for another apology instead. "I'm sorry about messing things up for you."

"Yeah, you said that already."

"I just can't believe Marsh actually broke up with you. Over the phone," Craig said. "What a jackass."

"Well, he didn't really break up with me…" Kyle admitted after worrying his lip for a few seconds in silence. Craig lifted a brow in question. "I mean, he said we should take a break, and maybe see other people for a little while, but he didn't mean that part. So it's not like things are over between us or anything. We just need to talk."

Craig was a little disheartened to hear this. While he honestly did feel bad for upsetting Kyle, in all actuality he couldn't have cared less that he had potentially ruined Kyle's relationship. Stan was nothing but an obstacle of sorts to Craig, and even if he didn't plan on making any moves, he was still selfish. Knowing that Stan would be out of the picture would have been a nice consolation prize.

"He's still a jackass," he reaffirmed sternly.

"Remember: I wouldn't even be in this situation if it weren't for you and that childish tantrum you decided to throw," Kyle reminded him sharply.

"He wants to _'take a break'_ because he heard my voice? Come on, that's just ridiculous and you know it," Craig said. "Obviously he doesn't trust you, otherwise he wouldn't have flipped his shit."

"I mean, to be fair, it's not like I've been completely honest with him about everything," Kyle admitted sheepishly. "Why do you hate Stan so much, anyway?"

"I don't hate Marsh," Craig said, which was mostly true. "I just don't like him."

"But _why?_ What did he ever do to you?"

Craig shrugged. Aside from the bias he held for obvious reasons, he just never cared for the man he'd always been compared to growing up. Craig never liked how Stan pussyfooted around his problems or acted like everything was about him. There was really only one way that Craig could sum up what he thought about him:

"He's fake."

"How do you mean?"

"Do you remember that anti-bullying video he directed back when we were kids? Or that whole cause bracelet catastrophe? That's what I mean."

Kyle shook his head. "Sometimes Stan just loses sight of the big picture. That doesn't mean he's fake," he said. "Ever since he started battling depression when we were younger, sure, he's done some… dumb and questionable things." Kyle cleared his throat. "But that doesn't make him a bad person. Hell, he tried to steal Cartman's _kidney_ for me, once."

"Of course you'd say that, you're supposed to marry him," Craig said, and before Kyle could get a word in he added, "which is something I never understood; why you're even with him, I mean. You guys are way too different."

"We're best friends!"

"But Stan's not exactly all there."

Kyle scowled. "Stan is _not_ stupid."

"That's not exactly what I meant, but yeah. He kind of is."

Kyle stopped once they'd passed the bench for the second time that evening. Craig watched as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ward off the chill from the wind as Charlie pissed on the leg of the bench. They should've brought jackets.

"I meant he's not as committed as he could be."

"We've been together for almost ten years. How much more committed can you possibly get?"

"He broke up with you in high school to get back with Wendy. Twice," Craig reminded him. "I get he must've been freaking the fuck out about his precious sexuality but like, if you're gay, then be gay. Fucking pick one. Jesus Christ."

"He's _bi_."

"He's shit at commitment is what he is."

Kyle forced a laugh. "And I suppose you're any better?" he asked. "Clyde told me about how you slept with your classmates in college, you know. Doesn't really sound like you've got room to talk."

"First of all, that's neither of your guys' business. Second, what does it matter even if it's true? It was purely physical and they knew it. I never dated them."

Kyle scoffed. "And Tweek?"

"What about—" Craig was interrupted by Kyle's phone ringing, catching the both of them off guard. Stan's picture flashed on the screen. "Aren't you gonna answer it."

"I—I don't know…" Kyle stammered, clearly unprepared for the sudden call. He looked up at Craig, then back down at his phone. Craig knew Kyle was nervous about talking around him. "No—now's not really a good time."

"It's as good of a time as any. Besides, didn't you say that you two needed to talk," Craig reasoned, though he didn't sound too ecstatic.

The phone stopped ringing and Stan's picture disappeared. Kyle let out a breath of relief.

"Yeah, but not like—" Something else popped up on the screen. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"He left a message."

"Play it," Craig urged. Kyle brought the phone hesitantly to his ear, only to have it pulled away.

"Play it out loud," Craig clarified.

Before Kyle could refuse, Craig had taken it upon himself to snatch Kyle's phone away and play the voicemail.

"Craig—!"

"Hey Kyle, it's me," Stan's voice began to fill the space between them. _"_Why aren't you answering your phone? And you hung up on me earlier. Um, hey, I'm sorry if I made you mad. I really wasn't trying to upset you on purpose, and I'm not… mad about the whole Craig thing." There was a pause and then a heavy sigh. "It's kind of weird, I'm not gonna lie. But like, I know it must be hard dealing with your family alone. So I understand."

"So he really thinks we're fucking, huh."

"_Shh!_"

"Anyways," Stan continued, "I still think we should take a break for a little while. Maybe see other people… if the opportunity arises, I mean. I know you said there wasn't anything going on between you and Craig, and it's not like I'm _encouraging_ it or anything, but… I won't be mad if something _does _happen. But we're still getting married, alright? This is only temporary, so uh, don't go falling for that moron, haha. Not that you'd actually do something stupid like that. He was always kind of a douchebag." There was some rustling, then Stan cleared his throat. "Anyways, I guess I'll talk to you later. I love you, Kyle. Goodnight."

_Beep._

Craig handed the phone back to Kyle.

"Well if that wasn't the most romantic voicemail I've ever heard," he said. "And he had the nerve to call _me_ a douchebag. What a trip."

Kyle was too shaken up by Stan's words to even pay attention to Craig. He wanted to dial Stan and set things straight once and for all—that taking a break was one thing but seeing other people was simply out of the question—but he couldn't bring himself to press the call button because nothing was adding up. What if Stan really had been planning this for a while? Why did he take out vacation time? What if this really _wasn't_ his own fault?

"He's done this before."

"Huh?"

"Our first year of college. We took a break because he wasn't sure about being gay and got back with Wendy for a while. That's when he realized he must've been bisexual," Kyle explained quietly. It'd been a rough three and a half months that had ended with Stan drunkenly apologizing and begging outside their shared dorm for Kyle to take him back. The RA ended up kicking him out of the hall that night.

"Well you know it's not her. She just got married to Kenny last year. Plus they've got a kid."

Craig was right. Besides, Kyle knew that it couldn't have been Wendy since they'd always been on good terms and she'd never keep something like that from him. But Kyle couldn't think of anybody else; his fiancé had always been a bit of a social recluse when it came to networking outside of work. "It must be someone from the office," he said, looking down. He began to start walking again when Craig caught his shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay?"

That was a stupid thing for Craig to ask because he was obviously not okay, but he nodded anyways.

"Yeah. I just—I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"About Stan?"

"About _everything._" Kyle paused, trying to come up with the right words to use that wouldn't make him turn into an emotional trainwreck on the spot. Now was not the time nor place to have a breakdown, and he refused to let Craig see him get teary-eyed. "I mean, what's even the point of me being here now? I might as well pack my shit and just go back home."

"Back home—to New York?" Craig asked, sounding more alarmed than he probably should have. "Why?"

"Because I'm just wasting my time." Kyle shook his head. "You know Stan's the one who wanted to have the wedding here? Not me. Good fucking _God_, not me. I hate this place. But Stan thought it'd be nice to see our families again. So there's literally no reason for me to be here if Stan's not here too."

"But it's only temporary, isn't it?" Craig reasoned. "So what's the point in going back? Just stay here for now. Stan even said the wedding was still on in the voicemail."

Kyle shrugged. "I guess."

"Besides, the space might be good for you too, but you're not going to get much if you're up his ass back in New York. Figuratively _and_ literally."

Kyle looked at Craig with a raised brow. "I thought you'd be excited to have me out of your hair."

"Don't get things twisted, Broflovski. You're still a pain in my ass," Craig assured him.

"I dunno. I'm starting to think you secretly enjoy having me around."

"As if."

Kyle chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His lips fell to a wry smile as he looked out over the filthy pond. He knew why Craig was being uncharacteristically nice and was only messing with him.

"I won't be able to give it to you until the end of the month but you'll still get your money, alright?"

"That's not what this—"

"And I'll be out of the apartment on Sunday, just like we agreed," Kyle added. "I guess I'll move back in with my parents and tell them Stan had to leave for a work-related emergency or something like that."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why move back in with your parents? You're already settled in here, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice having someone around to keep Clyde occupied. Kinda like a live in babysitter."

Kyle rolled his eyes at the fact that Craig considered him living out of his suitcase _settled in_. "As much as I appreciate the fact that you find me of use, I can't keep paying you five-thousand dollars every week just to sleep on your couch. Unfortunately I'm not made out of money like you seem to believe."

"I won't charge you."

"I'm sorry?"

"You can stay. I won't charge you anything over the five grand."

"Why?"

"Do I need to have a reason?"

"Uh, honestly? Yeah, you kind of do. No offense but you're sort of an asshole, so—"

"Wow. Thanks."

"—it's not like you can really blame me for being suspicious. You've got to have an ulterior motive."

Craig didn't answer immediately. "Maybe I just feel bad for fucking things up for you," he eventually said, then quickly added, "it's not like it's a big deal or anything. I'm just letting you stay at the apartment. You can pay rent by cleaning and cooking since Clyde can't do either of those things. Take it or leave it, I don't care."

Kyle scoffed. "You? Feel?"

"Whatever. Have fun staying with your parents."

Kyle took the leash wrapped loosely around Craig's wrist and began walking ahead with Charlie. They stopped at the edge of the pond, not too far from where Craig was still standing near the bench, watching them.

"Let's say I do take you up on your offer," Kyle thought out loud, because it wasn't actually that bad of an idea; living at Craig's _was_ a lot more bearable than being stuck at his parents house. The sound of leaves crunching behind him let him know that Craig was on the move. "Would it be alright if I maybe bought an air bed, or like, a spare twin mattress to lay on the living room floor? The couch is really uncomfortable—it's been killing my back the past two nights."

"There's not enough space in the living room for a mattress."

"Oh. Alright. I guess I'll live," Kyle said, cracking his back.

Craig sighed. "If it's really that uncomfortable I guess you can stay in my room."

"Huh? But I thought you didn't want me in there?"

"Well you've already managed to ignore me and trespass into my personal space despite me telling you to stay out, so it's not like I've got anything else to hide." Craig snatched the leash back from Kyle. "The left side of the bed is mine. Got it?"

"Yeah," Kyle answered even though he was unsure how he felt about sharing a bed with Craig. Craig was about to say something else but was cut short by the sound of rolling thunder. Looking up, Kyle could see that the clouds were starting to give way.

"Dammit, it's gonna start pouring," Craig complained when he felt the first few raindrops hit his skin. "Let's go; I'm not in the mood to give Charlie a bath tonight. Wet dog smell is the worst." He tugged on the leash to get Charlie away from the pond where he'd been nosing around. They were out of there before the next bout of lightning could light up the sky.

* * *

Clyde was sitting in the same spot when they got back to the apartment, except now he was balancing a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich on a folded over napkin in his lap.

"There you guys are." He dusted his fingers on the arm of the couch. Charlie shook himself dry when Craig unhitched his leash, getting water all over the entryway. "Where'd you go? I was starting to get worried."

Craig watched from his peripheral vision as Kyle kicked off his muddy boots and went to sift through his suitcase for a fresh change of clothes.

"Nowhere."

"Hey," Kyle said, grabbing Craig's full attention. "I'm gonna go wash up and get ready for bed—if that's alright?" He stood there awkwardly, clutching the only towel to his chest that was designated acceptable for him to use.

"Sure."

Kyle nodded and took his leave, dipping into Craig's room to change first. The sight of Kyle walking into usually-off limits territory didn't go unnoticed by Clyde, whose interest was immediately piqued.

"You do know that Kyle just went into your room, right?" he asked. "Like, he's in there. Right now."

"I know."

"_You know?_" Clyde asked incredulously, voice low as if they were both in on some sort of scheme that they couldn't risk anyone else knowing. He glanced at Craig's bedroom door from the corner of his eye. "Then what's the deal? You're not actually sleeping with him, right?"

Craig prickled at the two vastly different meanings of that sentence. He had a feeling he knew which one Clyde was suggesting at and he was quick to stomp out any budding ideas before his senseless best friend let their imagination run wild.

"I'm just letting Broflovski stay in my room for a while. The couch hurts his back or some shit. Stop acting like it's the end of the world."

"Do you really think that's a good idea though?"

"What the hell are you talking about." Craig deadpanned, quickly becoming uncomfortable with how Clyde was now suddenly sitting up straight, a sort of unnaturally pensive air surrounding him. He shook his head and looked away, turning his focus on the blank television screen instead. Craig began to fuss around in the kitchen, hoping that the noise would help drown out his uneasiness. Fumbling with dirty dishes might've been an odd type of therapy but keeping his hands busy worked.

"You never told me why Kyle was staying with us."

"I'm just helping him with something. Get off my dick."

"But with what? And does Stan know?"

That hit a nerve in Craig, who accidentally squeezed the handle off one of the cracked red mugs; the one that Kyle had used that morning. He tried to keep his cool as he slowly turned to face Clyde.

"What does Marsh have to do with anything," he bit out.

"Well he _did_ apparently just break up with Kyle because of you for some weird reason, so I'd imagine he's got a lot to do with it."

"So what, now you're on Marsh's side all of a sudden?" Craig asked as he turned around. His indifferent facade was quickly chipping away, and it definitely showed. "Who's best friend are you supposed to be?"

"What? No, it's not like that," Clyde assured him vehemently. "It's just, didn't you chew him out earlier for going in your room? And now you're letting him sleep with you like nothing happened?" Clyde treaded lightly, choosing his words carefully. "Not to mention, you've been messing around with Kyle when you knew he was dating Stan. I mean, that's kinda fucked up, you know? But that's not why I'm telling you this—I'm only telling you this cause you're my best bro, alright? And best friends look out for each other."

"I already told you Clyde, there's nothing going on between us. He's only staying in my room."

"Yeah, for now maybe," Clyde said. "But how long until something _does_ happen?"

Craig settled back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean."

"I mean—" Clyde sighed and stood up, leaving the last bit of his grilled cheese on the arm of the couch. Craig watched him through slitted eyes as he made his way towards the small kitchen; he figured it'd be better this way rather than announcing it across the living room in case Kyle was listening.

"Look, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you were totally into him, man," he told Craig bluntly, patting him on the shoulder. Craig stiffened at the contact, his wary gaze now an outright glare. "I mean, I guess I didn't really realize it until after we graduated. You kept trying to get into the guild Kyle was in on Warcraft when everyone still played, remember?" He laughed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's been forever so I'm not sure how things are between you guys now. Maybe you really are just helping him out with something and I'm just crazy? I dunno." Clyde shrugged. "But like, the point is, Kyle's still with Stan, or at least he _was_, and basically…" Clyde grabbed Craig by the shoulders and leaned in dangerously close, their foreheads almost pressed together as if they were wishing each other good luck before a game. Craig's own light grey eyes bore coldly into Clyde's own mud brown ones.

"What I'm trying to say is that I don't want you getting hurt, alright? I love you, man. No homo."

Craig broke free from Clyde's overdramatic embrace with a scowl and pushed him away. It was one thing to invade his personal space, but it was a whole other to bring up something so absolutely _ridiculous_ such as his apparent "feelings," which, even if they _did_ exist, were never supposed to be brought to light if Clyde knew any better. Now he couldn't tell whether the tips of his ears were burning because he was angry or embarrassed.

"Just mind your own business."

"Huh? Wait—where are you going?" Clyde asked as a sour-faced Craig stormed out of the kitchen and disappeared around the corner. A slammed door signaled that Craig was thoroughly finished with the conversation and had absolutely no intentions of ever acknowledging it in the future.

Sealed away from Clyde's stupidity, Craig stood with his back to his bedroom door and baited breath as he listened to Clyde shuffle around the apartment. He'd half expected for Clyde to chase him down and force to him talk, but apparently that wasn't in the cards if the sound of a jacket being zipped and the front door opening and closing meant anything.

_Dumbass, _Craig thought as he clicked on the light and the fan across the room and started tearing out of his own clothes. He had a good idea of where Clyde was heading. Clyde must've been out of his mind to think he could even begin to lecture him over something like that when he didn't even have a goddamn clue—and defending Marsh, of all people! He forcefully threw his shirt into the hamper next to his dresser as he came up with a few other choice names to call Clyde in his head.

The sound of sheets rustling made Craig stand at attention, his fingers pausing over his unlatched belt buckle. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed tufts of unruly red curls poking out from underneath his deep purple comforter. Kyle was already in bed, the blanket pulled up almost completely over his body.

Craig continued to step out of his jeans, although a bit more slowly, as if he were treading uncharted waters. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the current situation. It wasn't like he'd forgotten that he'd told Kyle it'd be okay if he stayed in his room; sharing a bed wasn't a big deal, despite Clyde's opinion on the matter. But saying it and actually doing it were completely different things. Left in only his boxer briefs, Craig opted for a pair of pajama pants just to put himself at ease.

He shook his head. At ease from _what_, exactly? There was nothing for him to be worried about, let alone something that would warrant him to feel the need to cover up. Compared to his usual sleep attire he was acting like a blushing virgin. He wondered what Kyle was wearing.

He turned off the light and crawled into his side of the bed, forcing the blanket down to Kyle's clothed side when he tried to get covered up himself.

"Are you awake."

No answer. Craig couldn't even gauge a reaction since he was staring at Kyle's back, so he had to take Kyle's unspoken word for it. Without much thought he began to build a sort of small pillow barricade between the both of them beneath the blanket before fixing it, pulling it up to cover Kyle's shoulders rather than his whole head this time. Craig watched him for a few more seconds before turning over and closing his own eyes.

It wasn't much easier to relax, even with the wall between them and the sound of the rotating floor fan masking the white noise in the room.

* * *

Not much later across town, Clyde let himself inside the Tweek Bros coffee shop.

"We're closed!" someone squeaked from the back room somewhere. Clyde re-locked the door behind him and went around the counter, following the voice he knew so well.

"It's just me," he said, slipping the spare shop key back into the fold of his wallet. There was a bit of noise, the sound of objects clanging together and boxes being pushed, before Tweek poked his head out from the swinging door.

"C-Clyde!"

Clyde smirked and lifted himself onto the counter to sit. "The one and only."

"How did you—"

"You gave me a spare key. Remember?" Clyde reminded him. Tweek nodded, even though he didn't seem to completely understand. Well, it'd been a long time since Clyde had actually used it, after all. "What, I don't get a hug?"

Tweek didn't budge. Instead he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean? I came to see you of course. Just like yesterday." Clyde dropped his outstretched arms to his sides. Tweek had been acting sort of distant lately, even earlier that week when he dropped by with the others.

"Why?"

Clyde frowned. "Does there have to be a reason for me to come see you?"

Tweek shook his head. "I—I guess not."

"Well, then there's your answer."

Tweek held his gaze for a few moments longer before turning around towards the filthy coffee machines all lined up on the back counter. He began to fumble around haphazardly with a few of them, wiping them down with the ratty old green washcloth he always used. Tweek didn't say anything more to Clyde, who watched as he scrubbed mercilessly down the row. The dimmed lights of the shop left dark shadows over the sharp curves and contours of Tweek's thin body, bringing attention to a certain spot on his upper back in particular. Clyde got down from the counter and crept up behind him. He pressed his hand to Tweek's upper back, only to have his suspicions confirmed.

"You're still wearing that thing?" Clyde asked as he gently dug his fingers between the layers of pliant fabric that was wrapped around Tweek's chest underneath his shirt. Tweek jolted so badly under his touch that he accidentally knocked over a few unopened bags of coffee beans. He made a valiant effort to scurry away from Clyde, but Clyde's hand had found it's way to his shoulder instead, keeping him in place. Tweek spun around like a bat out of hell, sandwiched between the back counter and Clyde.

"I-I need it."

"You know those are really dangerous, right?" Clyde said. He thumbed over the covered fabric before his fingers made a move for Tweek's unbuttoned collar instead. Tweek didn't move to stop him when he pulled his loose shirt to the side, bringing the tan elastic bandage wrap into view. "You shouldn't be wearing them."

"How do you know that?"

"I read about it," Clyde said, still playing with Tweek's shirt. He could feel his face growing red as Tweek continued to stare at him in confusion. It was clear that Tweek was waiting for him to elaborate, but that was all he could say. "To be honest I don't really know what's so bad about them. I mean, I don't remember. But I know they're bad for you, okay? They have like, actual things that look like training bras. Um, oh—binders! That's what they're called."

Tweek seemed less confused and more curious now. His shoulders relaxed and he let out the nervous breath he'd been holding. His eyes darted between Clyde's own as if he couldn't decide which one to focus on. "You read that?"

Clyde nodded. "Yeah. I've been reading a lot about… that kind of stuff."

"Why?"

"Because I want to understand more."

Tweek chewed his lip as he stared at Clyde a little longer. Eventually that familiar feeling of discomfort and anxiety must've crept up on him because he sidestepped out from his makeshift "cage" between the counter and Clyde.

"Tweek?"

"You should go. Dad doesn't like it when people are here after closing."

Tweek started for the door to show Clyde out, but Clyde was not having that. He came here for a reason, and he wasn't about to leave without at least having Tweek hear him out.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"Clyde—"

"This whole year you've barely talked to me. I have to practically _corner_ you to even get you to say two words to me. What gives? It's like we're barely even friends now, dude!"

"We talked about this, remember?" Tweek said, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. "Besides, aren't you with Bebe now? It's for the best."

"No, we didn't talk about it—we _never _did! You just told me you needed space and I said fine. I always say fine." Clyde's voice was starting to crack, and his eyes were wet and glossy. Any moment now the waterworks would turn on.

Tweek's harsh expression softened. "Clyde…"

"I never complained when you pushed me away because you weren't sure about… about who you were. I never questioned it either, because that's not something bros do, you know? But I tried to understand, and I always waited until you were ready. But this last time—" Clyde sniffled as he dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, forcing down the lump in his throat. He was trying his hardest to keep it all in. "What the hell, Tweek? It's like you didn't even leave the light on. I never had a chance to come back. You wouldn't let me."

"Aren't you happier with Bebe?" Tweek asked softly.

"Huh?"

"You've been dating Bebe, haven't you?"

"I mean, we've been hanging out a lot but it's not really dating." Clyde sniffled. "I don't get it—why does everyone think that?"

There was a silent pause before Tweek quietly asked, "Did you—did you s-sleep with her?"

Clyde nodded sheepishly. Tweek sighed and shook his head, turning back towards the door.

"See, this is what I mean—this is why we shouldn't be together!"

"It didn't mean anything though! I swear!" Clyde shouted. "I was just lonely, and—and—she was the only person who I could talk to!" He followed closely behind Tweek, keeping on his heels. "It was a few months ago, and I never slept with anyone else before that, either! It's just, you left me for a whole year, Tweek! _A year!_"

"So you couldn't keep it in your pants?" Tweek asked heatedly, whipping around to face Clyde.

"I'm sorry!" Clyde begged. "I'm so sorry, I swear, it'll never happen again!"

Tweek's hard glare softened almost immediately. Clyde hadn't done anything wrong; he'd broken up with the poor guy, after all. Tossed him out so that he could deal with his identity issues on his own without dragging Clyde along for the ride. Clyde was too good to have to suffer through the constant bouts of anxiety and weeks of sexlessness that he imposed on him at the worst times.

"It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like we're together now, so you can do what you want." Tweek shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. He felt a lot less vulnerable that way. "Things are better the way they are now. You should be with a—a girl who is comfortable in their own skin."

Clyde frowned. "What? Tweek, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about _me_, Clyde!"

"What about you? And what do girls have to do with it?"

"You know what I'm talking about!" Tweek shouted. "I can't even figure out what I am, whether I'm a boy or a girl—one week it's one thing, next week it's another! My body and my mind never match up and it's d-driving me crazy! I just want it to stop!"

Clyde blinked. "Maybe you're both?"

"Both!?"

"Yeah. I mean, why not? Or maybe you're neither?" Clyde wiped the rest of the lingering tears away as he looked Tweek up and down, from his disheveled hair to his triple-laced shoes. He couldn't help but chuckle. "Dude, you're cute."

"You're straight!"

"So?" Clyde asked.

"_So?_ So what if I really am supposed to be a boy? What if—what if I get surgery some day? Or take hormones? Clyde? C-Clyde—!"

Clyde began to close in on Tweek, backing him up against the wall next to the door. It's as if Tweek was destined to be stuck between Clyde and a hard place that evening or something.

"I don't care what you are," Clyde said, grabbing Tweek by the shoulders and forcing him to stay put. He could tell that Tweek was just itching to squirm his way out of there, but he wasn't going to let him. "Besides, I went _how_ many years thinking you were—I mean, you _had_ guy parts down there until we actually did it. Remember?" He smirked as he remembered how it happened, so suddenly in their shared hotel room at Disney World after high school while Craig was out; in retrospect, probably chasing after Kyle. "So seriously, man. I couldn't care less."

Tweek stared up at him nervously. "A-are you sure?"

"Totally. I want to be with you more than anything, Tweek," Clyde said. "I always let you go but I'm not gonna do that anymore. I'm gonna get better at understanding all of this, okay? You're not getting rid of me this time."

Clyde began to back off in an attempt to give Tweek some space after he said his piece. He knew Tweek hated being boxed in after all. But Tweek only ended up launching himself into Clyde, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into his soft chest.

"Promise you won't go even if I try to push you away again?" Tweek asked, his voice muffled from Clyde's shirt that smelled like a mix of smoke from a grease fire and cheap body spray.

"Pinky promise," Clyde said, offering up his finger to seal the deal. Tweek just rolled his eyes and laughed, giving Clyde a quick peck on the lips instead. Clyde's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unexpected kiss.

"Whoa. Uh, think I could get one more? I wasn't really ready for it."

Tweek didn't say anything. Instead, he took Clyde by the hand and lead him towards the back room where the ladder to the roof was, where their old lawn chairs and bongs and that barely inflated air mattress was still waiting underneath the stars. Because he had a lot more than just kisses in mind, and they had the shop all to themselves until five the next morning; plenty of time to make up for what was lost.


	7. Chapter 7

**Jaded-foreigner:** Don't worry, there will be a flashback-focused chapter coming soon!

**Vampiracy:** Craig definitely did deserve getting chewed out, no doubt about it. And Stan isn't any better; he'll get what's coming to him soon enough. Of course, Stan isn't exactly all that bad of a guy... just very... well, confused. Hopefully I can do him justice in not painting him to be simply just an outright jerk, because he really isn't!

**Chilipop:** Yeah, paying someone to step in as your fiance for you is a bit crazy, but for the South Park universe it's pretty realistic, haha! And I'm glad you enjoy the boys in all their flaws; they wouldn't be much fun without them, after all!

* * *

"Stan? What are we doing here?"

Kyle wasn't sure what was going on. He could've sworn he was at their apartment in Manhattan just a second ago making dinner, but apparently that wasn't the case anymore. Now he was sitting on the edge of Stan's desk in his office twenty-five floors up with Stan closing in on him like some sort of predator as he loosened his tie.

"Working."

"Wait, stop!" Kyle tried to pull out of his grasp when his fingers tangled into the collar of his own shirt. Stan's office door was wide open and there were no curtains covering the massive ceiling-to-floor windows that encased the room. "What if someone sees us?"

"Shhh, it's Sunday. Nobody's here on Sundays," Stan assured him. That didn't help much, only serving to raise more questions than anything. Not to mention the fact that there was still the issue with the windows. But when Stan pushed Kyle down onto the desk and caught his lips in a hungry, feral kiss, Kyle forgot all about his worries and gave into natural instinct instead.

God, how long had it been since they'd done something like this? Not make out on Stan's office desk for the whole world to see in particular, but simply _connected_ like this in general? It felt like forever had passed since the two of them had shared any sort of real passion for one another, aside from the moments of fleeting affection that managed to slip somewhere into their busy schedules. Kyle had even begun to wonder how much longer he could've held out from having Stan's strong arms around him again.

Something hard pressing against the inside of his thigh interrupted his thoughts, making a surge of warmth well up in the pit of his stomach.

"You alright down there?" he teased with a smirk. Stan wasn't smiling though. He pressed his forehead to Kyle's, staring deeply into his eyes. Stan's own were dark and full of lust, and it made Kyle just the littlest bit anxious.

"I want you," Stan demanded harshly. Before Kyle even had a chance to feel that warmth in the pit of his stomach grow, he was caught off guard by Stan burying his face in the crook of his neck and grinding his hardness into him even more, making the redhead yelp and latch onto a fistful of Stan's hair.

"Oh God. Stan." Kyle moaned as Stan assaulted his neck, peppering it with nips and kisses and the occasional lick. In the midst of everything, one of Stan's rough hands managed to squeeze between them and slip up under his shirt.

What the hell had gotten into Stan? This was nothing like how he usually was; clumsy and maybe even a little awkward, especially when it came to assertively taking the reigns. Not that Kyle was complaining. He was more than ecstatic with this new turn of events, and he'd be damned if he wasn't about to milk the situation for all it was worth. Nothing was going to happen if they didn't get rid of their clothes first, though.

Kyle had to force himself to sacrifice an arm from around Stan and pull away just long enough to start working on Stan's shirt buttons, trying to keep his hand steady as Stan continued to wage war on his body. For some reason Stan's shoulders didn't feel as broad as they'd been just seconds ago, and Stan's hair wasn't as soft and thin as it usually felt to the touch. However, Kyle didn't have time to worry about such trivial things.

"Come on, hurry up and take this damned thing off," Kyle urged as he tugged at Stan's finally opened—

Vest?

"Fuck, Broflovski. Hold your horses," a voice that definitely did _not_ belong to Stan grumbled in his ear, kissing along the shell of it. "It's not gonna kill you if we take it slow for once."

Kyle frantically shoved the other man off of him. He already had a pretty solid idea of who it was from the sound of their voice, but he wasn't any less horrified when he actually found himself face to face with Craig Tucker.

"What the hell?" the intruder asked. His light grey eyes were hooded with arousal, betraying his tone of annoyance. His thin, swollen lips were wet. "I thought we were about to do this."

"About to—are you out of your _mind?_ Let go of me!" Kyle shouted angrily. He tried to shake Craig's grip from his shoulders but Craig refused to let go. They were no longer in Stan's corner office, but in a shabby old movie theater lobby on top of the concession stand. Craig's tacky yellow bow tie stared back at him mockingly. "I said get off!"

"Hey, you're the one who came to see _me_."

Craig pushed Kyle back down against the glass countertop and continued running his hands along his sides. Kyle grit his teeth when Craig dove back in for his neck. He tried to slip out from underneath but Craig was heavier than he looked sitting on his hips, and having _both_ of his weak spots exploited at once wasn't exactly helping.

"Stan!" Kyle shouted without a second thought. "Stan! Help!"

Craig ceased his advances and sat up.

"Why are you calling that moron's name at a time like this."

"That _moron_ is my fiancé! Now get off of me!" Kyle yelled relentlessly. "Stan! Stan, where are you!"

Craig rolled his eyes and thrust his left hand in front of Kyle's face, making him flinch. Wrapped around Craig's ring finger was a plain, thick silver band. "I really hope you aren't two-timing me, Broflovski."

Feeling uneasy with Craig's strange choice of words, Kyle thumbed at his own ring finger only to feel something round and smooth there as well.

He felt sick.

"No!"

"Good to know. Now, since that's out of the way." Craig scooted himself further back to sit on Kyle's legs. Why Kyle didn't take the chance to book it then was beyond him, but when Craig began to unbutton his pants with slim, adept fingers, he couldn't help but watch with wide eyes and bated breath.

Craig grinned and licked his lips as his fingers dipped beneath the elastic waistband of Kyle's boxers.

"I think you have something that belongs to me."

Kyle awoke with a start.

Eyes wide open and heart beating a mile a minute, he was greeted with the sight of an upside-down American flag hanging on the wall in front of him. For a moment he wondered where he'd ended up now, until the warmth of the soft down purple comforter surrounding him brought him back to reality.

_It was only a dream._

Kyle closed his eyes and turned over onto his back with a relieved sigh. His cell phone buzzed faintly underneath his pillow. He blindly dug around for it, but not before taking a few deep breaths and revelling in the fact that he'd just barely managed to escape what easily could have been an absolute nightmare.

8:34 AM. About time for his morning insulin, according to the alarm he'd set the night previously. He turned it off and tossed his phone onto the other side of the bed without much thought, then slung an arm over his eyes. He didn't want to get up; the bed was just too comfortable.

Kyle dropped his arm and looked across the small pile of bunched up pillows and blankets to find that the other side was empty, save for his phone. Craig must've already been awake. That surprised Kyle, who didn't take Craig for being someone who actually functioned before noon.

_Craig._

Kyle groaned as he covered his face out of both equal parts embarrassment and disgust.

What went wrong? How the hell did that asshole even manage to infiltrate his dreamscape? Things had been going so well—he was having the best dream he'd had in weeks—no, months! And then _that_ had to happen.

Growing more and more irritated the longer he laid in bed—_Craig's bed_—he forced himself to sit up and scoot towards the edge. But when he tried to untangle his legs from the blanket, he was made aware of an uncomfortable phenomena that he was more than familiar with.

This was not shaping up to be his morning.

He grimaced down at the prominent tent in his boxers and muttered a few curses under his breath. As if it weren't already bad enough that dream-Craig had just got done manhandling him minutes ago, he had to go ahead and get turned _on_ from it, too.

Kyle shook his head. No, this wasn't because of Craig; it was Stan who he'd initially been dreaming about, after all. Besides, morning wood was totally natural, so it didn't mean that it was the dream that necessarily caused it.

Right?

Rather than take action—he'd be damned if he were about to seriously rub one out in Craig's room with the thought of that jackass lingering in the back of his mind—he decided to just wait it out. It wouldn't be too long until it went down on it's own. He just needed to focus on something else for a bit.

Since he didn't get much of a chance to yesterday, he took this opportunity to glance around the room, taking it all in. If it weren't for his cell phone assuring him that it was definitely morning he would've thought otherwise; barely any light was able to filter in through the tightly-shut blinds, giving the room more of a late afternoon feel. Coupled with the dark grey-blue walls, it only made him want to crawl back under the covers and go back to sleep that much more.

While Kyle had always pictured Craig's room to be boring and bare, it was actually neither of those things in the least. Cluttered yet obsessively clean, everything seemed to have a place of it's own; from the carefully arranged stack of comics on the shelf next to his desk, to the folded-up camera tripod that leaned up against the wall next to a vintage catty-cornered green armchair. Banners and posters, mostly of TV shows and bands he'd never seen or heard of, covered almost every inch of the four walls. One poster in particular did stand out though: _Rocky Horror Picture Show_. He remembered Kenny forcing him to attend a live production of that old movie back in high school. It was… _different,_ to say the least.

No doors on the closet across from the foot of the bed showed off Craig's wardrobe, which seemed to consist of mostly dark and earth-tone colored clothes. Despite being filled with t-shirts and hoodies, there were a couple of dress shirts separated off to the side that looked like they'd never been worn before. So Craig had lied about not having anything aside from that cardigan?

To the left of the closet was a dresser with a television on the wall above it, and to the right was a stand that housed a record player. Whether it was new or vintage, Kyle couldn't tell because it was in such good shape. Beneath it was a crate of mostly-dated vinyls. He couldn't read the titles from where he was sitting but he did recognize at least two Beatles records, thanks to Stan's own infatuation with the British band.

_No wonder the apartment looks so empty,_ Kyle thought as he turned his focus to the small desk across from him on the far side of the room. There were a few short white corrugated trading card boxes in the open cubby shelf underneath. _He hoards all of his shit in here._

While most of Craig's desk was covered in paperwork and spare camcorder parts, the corkboard on the wall above it was what grabbed his attention. Dozens of polaroids were pinned up in between handwritten notes, pins, and other mementos of sorts. Most of the pictures were of Clyde and Tweek, but there were a few of Kenny, Token, and the others from back in the day. Kyle figured that Craig must've taken them since he wasn't in a single one. Upon further inspection, however, he realized he was wrong; in one photo that wasn't a polaroid and was slightly covered, Kyle found himself wedged between a smiling Stan and a less than enthusiastic looking Craig while the rest of their friends surrounded them excitedly. It was a copy of the group photo they'd all taken at Disney that one summer.

Huh. Kyle didn't even realize he'd been standing next to Craig then. Though the picture was at least eight years old, seeing the two tall, dark-haired men side by side made Kyle realize that his little brother had been right—they really _didn't_ look anything like one another.

Kyle looked back down at the bed. He'd always believed that a person could tell a lot about someone by their bedroom, and Kyle felt as if he had a whole new understanding of the man he'd been staying with that past week; maybe even a sort of hesitant appreciation.

Until his eyes skimmed over the bedside table where a small bottle of hand lotion was poking out from behind a box of tissues, and he felt his face begin to heat up once more. That was the last push he needed to instantly deflate his already flagging erection and get him out of bed once and for all. He'd rather gouge his own eyes out than imagine Craig touching himself in the same spot where he'd been sitting.

He got chills the second his feet hit the hardwood floor. Craig's room was absolutely _freezing_—was it always like this? Kyle wished he'd of worn socks to bed last night because now he had to tread across the apartment barefoot just to get a pair out of his suitcase that was still in the living room. He momentarily considered borrowing a pair of Craig's on the way out when a laundry basket sitting on top of the dresser caught his eye. On a familiar green t-shirt sat a yellow post-it note with a single word written in Sharpie marker: **HERE**.

Craig had done his laundry.

Kyle didn't allow himself enough time to think too far into things, grabbing a pair of his own plain white socks from the side of the basket. He'd had enough surprises for one morning, and now he just wanted to hurry up and get out of that suffocatingly cozy room that was nowhere near as clinical or unwelcome as its owner seemed to be.

The wafting smell of something frying in the kitchen hit Kyle in the face the second he opened the door. Next was the music pumping throughout the front of the apartment, which completely threw him off because nothing was adding up. The music wasn't loud at all—Craig had this weird habit of listening to music or TV at painfully low volumes for some reason that totally escaped Kyle, but it was much louder than usual by Craig's standards; not to mention the strangely upbeat sound mixed with outdated harmonies that sounded more familiar than not. Kyle would have guessed it was just Clyde, but Clyde never listened to whatever _this_ was. Besides, it didn't smell like anything was burning.

Which is why Kyle was so surprised when he rounded the hall corner to find Craig standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of plaid grey pajama pants, mussed up hair and an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, bouncing a leg to the beat of the music. The few angry red pimples that spanned his back and shoulders stood out in stark contrast from his naturally tanned skin. And Kyle had just assumed he'd been rocking a mad farmer's tan this whole time.

"Good morning."

Visibly startled, Craig almost dropped the spatula he'd been holding into the frying pan. Before anything else he snatched a small remote from the counter next to him. The music in the room lowered to an even more indistinguishable volume until it was hardly anything more than background noise.

"What do you want, Broflovski."

"I just—I said good morning, didn't I?" Kyle snapped. He was not in the mood for Craig's attitude this early on in the day. "What's your deal? I thought we made progress yesterday."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Craig said before turning his attention back to the stove. Kyle rolled his eyes and ducked into the fridge instead. "Hey, stop that. You're making a mess."

"My insulin. I don't…" Kyle mumbled as he pushed milk cartons and Chinese takeout containers out of the way. His tape-wrapped vial of insulin wasn't in its usual place at the back of the fridge. "I can't find it."

Craig leaned over the top of the fridge door and flipped open the butter compartment.

"I put it in here last night. It's safer."

"Oh," was all Kyle could manage as Craig took it out. He moved the frying pan to an unused burner before grabbing Kyle's black medicine pouch that was still sitting on the edge of the island counter and pushed it towards him. Without another word spoken between them, Kyle checked his blood sugar and prepared a syringe while Craig tucked his cigarette behind his ear. "Stomach or arm?"

"Arm."

Kyle thought the two of them should really talk about what happened yesterday—particularly in regards to Craig's offer of letting him stay and if he was still sure about it—but he couldn't think of a way to bring it up without making things even more awkward than they already were.

"You sleep good."

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Kyle nodded. "What about you?"

"Yeah."

"Right." Kyle wasn't an idiot; he'd seen how red Craig's eyes were and noticed the spare blanket thrown over the back of the living room couch as soon as he came into the room. Not to mention the apartment was spotless compared to the night before. "So… what're you listening to?"

"Beach Boys," Craig told him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. When Kyle cocked his head to the side in blatant confusion, he asked, "What, you don't know who the Beach Boys are?"

Kyle shook his head. He knew the song sounded familiar.

"I just didn't recognize it at first. Never took you for a Beach Boys fan."

"Who isn't a fan of the Beach Boys. They're classic."

Kyle decided it'd probably be best to keep his indifference for the band to himself, along with his comment of how weird it was to know that Craig actually listened to this stuff, choosing to focus on his features as he administered the shot instead. The way Craig's sharp, narrow jaw set as he carefully pushed the needle into his skin made Kyle swallow hard. He was considerably more gentle than last time.

As the Beach Boys faded out of earshot, another old song that Kyle recognized from his colleague's a across-the-hall office took its place: "Dream Lover" by Bobby Darin. He inwardly groaned.

"Stan hates the Beach Boys," Kyle offered in an attempt to make small talk and change the course of his thoughts. "He hates most of that kind of music—except for the Beatles, I guess. He's more of a classic rock kind of guy."

Craig recapped the syringe and tossed it into the soda bottle from last night.

"Like I said before: Stan is an idiot."

"I thought you said he was a jackass?"

"That too."

Kyle stifled a laugh at Craig's bluntness as the man turned back to the stovetop; he must've had a death wish to be using a frying pan with no shirt on. Minutes later, Craig was pushing a plate full of pancakes and bacon in front of him.

"Eat."

Though neither Kyle nor his rumbling stomach could deny the fact that it looked delicious, he eyed the strips of bacon warily.

"It's the real deal. None of that turkey bullshit," Craig assured him.

"Oh thank God." Kyle sighed with relief and began to dig in. He didn't need to be told twice. "Bless Clyde's heart for trying but like, he does _not _need to be anywhere near a kitchen." Craig bounced his brows in agreement and joined him, eating directly from the pan instead. "Where is Clyde, anyway?"

Craig shrugged. "Tweek's, probably."

Alone and without Craig?

"Why?"

"Why not."

"I mean." Kyle didn't know how to ask while still making it sound as if he hadn't been wondering all week just exactly what was the relationship between them. "I dunno. I just thought there might've been something going on between the two of you."

"Why the fuck would there be anything going on between me and Tweek."

"Clyde said you guys dated."

"Yeah. For like three weeks during senior year." Craig narrowed his eyes. "What else did Clyde tell you."

_That you're ass-ramming gay. _

"Nothing."

Craig stared him down for a few more seconds before seemingly accepting Kyle's paltry answer and finishing his pancake. More outdated '50s music was up next, and Kyle was quickly growing tired of this archaic playlist.

"You never put your lip ring back in," Kyle thought aloud as he watched Craig lick syrup from his thumb. The memory of Craig squirting water at him through his open piercing hole during dinner made him shiver with disgust.

"Don't want it anymore."

"And what happened to your other ones?" Now that he noticed, those small plugs of his were gone too.

"Took them out last night."

"How come?"

"Just don't want them anymore."

"That's an awfully short answer for someone who practically threw a fit when I told them to take those stupid things out at my parents' house."

Craig swallowed and scoffed. "First of all, I didn't throw a fit. And I said I just don't want them anymore. Now would you get off my ass already?"

"Okay, okay. Sheesh." Kyle threw his hands up in mock surrender. He hadn't of meant to come off as rude; it was just that seeing Craig without his piercings, well, he almost looked… plain. Normal. Maybe even approachable? No, not that. "It's just kinda weird seeing you without them. They were already so tiny."

"You didn't like them."

"When did I ever say that?"

Craig turned around and started on the dirty dishes without an answer. Kyle shook his head as he pushed the last few bits of food around on his plate. He'd never understand Craig.

"You should probably put them back in before the holes close up. They really didn't look that bad," Kyle admitted, which was true. He might not've cared for those types of piercings in general but they worked for Craig. The lip ring, on the other hand, grossed Kyle out beyond belief; he couldn't begin to fathom the amount of bacteria that thing harbored.

Craig's hands stilled in the sink momentarily. He looked over his shoulder, side-eyeing Kyle.

"Maybe."

Kyle idly watched Craig's back as he continued to scrub the pan clean. It was even harder to hear the music now with the water running, but Kyle was pretty sure that he wasn't missing out on anything. Before he could comment on how he thought he was supposed to be taking care of the household chores in return for being able to stay at the apartment, Craig's phone went off in his pocket.

"Shit, I'm gonna be late." Craig dropped an unwashed dish into the sink and made a beeline for his bedroom. Kyle followed him.

"You work today?" he asked, waiting outside the bedroom door when Craig slammed it shut. It made sense that Craig would still want his own privacy to get dressed even though they were sharing a room now. Kyle waited a minute before asking again. "Craig?"

"When do I ever not work," Craig asked from the other side of the door. Moments later he came out dressed in his usual bright red theater vest and fitted black pants. The garish yellow bow tie that stood out against his white collar warmed Kyle's cheek. He had to look away to compose himself.

"I just thought that maybe we could go to Denver today and look around. Maybe check out the venue and stuff. For the wedding," Kyle said sheepishly. He had to fight to keep his eyes above chest level.

Craig simply stared at him.

"You're kidding, right."

"No?" Kyle didn't understand why Craig would think he'd joke about something like that. Besides, it wasn't like Kyle _wanted_ to drag him along—if he had a car of his own he wouldn't be in this predicament. "I've been needing to do that for a while now but you're always busy."

"You seriously want to go and worry about wedding bullshit after everything that happened yesterday."

"It's not like the wedding's _off_ or anything," Kyle tried to reason. However, he was starting to realize just how ridiculous he sounded, especially with Craig's judgmental gaze burning holes into him. "You even heard Stan say so yourself, remember? On the voicemail? So we've still got to—"

"Later." Craig shouldered past the other man carelessly to get to his shoes. "Just stay here for the day and relax. No point in stressing over that right now."

"Stay here—at the apartment? Like, alone?"

"Sure."

"Dude—"

Craig stopped lacing up his shoes to shoot Kyle a dangerous glare.

"—I mean, _Craig._ Are you serious?"

"If you're gonna be staying here for a while then yeah."

Kyle nodded. It definitely sounded better than having to relive yesterday afternoon at the grocery store with his mother by a longshot. Plus with the empty place to himself, maybe he could even get some work done and make a few phone calls.

"Would it be okay if I brought my stuff to your room?" he asked, motioning to his luggage bag that was still open and propped up against the living room wall. He was tired of having his stuff out in the open like that.

Craig pushed himself up from the couch and ran his fingers through his hair, fixing it into its usual messily sideswept style. The cigarette wedged behind his ear dropped to the floor behind him. Kyle was too busy wondering if Craig had even showered that morning to notice.

"I don't care," he answered with a shrug. "Just don't mess up my recordings if you watch TV and don't answer the door if anyone knocks. Cartman's been lurking around the building lately and I wouldn't be surprised if he knows you're here."

Craig gathered up his jacket and his car keys and left without another word, leaving Kyle standing half-dressed and confused in the middle of the living room as the first few lines of Perry Como's "Magic Moments" drowned out the silence in the apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing Kyle did was turn off that awful music. Then he set to work.

He showered. He shaved. He got dressed. He unfolded and refolded the clothes Craig had washed for him so that he'd feel less awkward about it. He made a few phone calls. He told his boss he might not be back as soon as he'd initially planned. He got chewed out. He considered calling Stan. He didn't. He gave in. He got angry when he was directed to voicemail. He took Charlie out for a quick potty break to blow off some steam. He hightailed it back to the apartment when he spotted a cop car parked at the corner. He spent a few minutes wondering how Cartman could've possibly found out he was in town and, if so, why he'd even care. He finished the rest of the dishes. He gave Charlie a bath, then regretted doing so almost immediately when Charlie got him soaked. He took another shower. He tried to watch TV but couldn't change the channel because there were two shows recording simultaneously.

Kyle groaned and tossed the remote onto the other end of the couch; having the apartment to himself wasn't all that it was cracked up to be.

A little over three hours had passed and he was already out of things to do. The excitement and novelty of the situation had worn off faster than he'd anticipated, and now he was absolutely bored. Worst of all, he couldn't even pass the time online since Craig's computer was password protected and the service coverage in South Park was so bad that using his own phone to surf the web was out of the question. He'd have to remember to get the wifi password from Clyde later.

"Where's Clyde when I need him?" Kyle asked nobody in particular. Or maybe he was asking Charlie. Who knew—it wasn't like he got an answer either way.

Sinking further down into the couch, his sights fell on his luggage bag across the room. Even though it was the first thing on his to-do list he still hadn't put his stuff away. Whether it was because he didn't want to go back in Craig's room or if he simply just lost the energy to do so was beyond him.

_Better to do it now than later with Craig breathing down my neck_, he reasoned, forcing himself to get up. He dragged his heavy suitcase into the arctic wasteland that was Craig's room and dropped it gracelessly on the red rug in the middle of the floor. He made a mental note to pack lighter next time—not that there'd be one.

Now where was he supposed to actually _put_ his stuff? Without a single open space that wasn't already occupied by something else, his options were limited to either the dresser or the closet—well, not so much the closet. There was no way he'd be able to wrestle his own clothes in between Craig's already jampacked wardrobe, nor did he think he wanted to, so he turned to the dresser instead.

There had to be at least _one_ drawer that was empty, right? Craig couldn't possibly need all six of them. Or at least that was what Kyle had thought before sliding most of them open. While the top ones had the usual—socks, underwear, accessories, etc—the middle ones were reserved for pants and more t-shirts.

Okay, so maybe Craig was a bit of a hoarder with clothes. Not what Kyle expected, but alright.

The good news was that the bottom two weren't stuffed with so much clothes that it was a wonder how they even managed to shut. Instead they were full of random, miscellaneous things; a frisbee, a leash, unopened Magic booster packs, more camera parts, an old green Game Boy, and a faded red t-shirt that probably didn't fit since elementary school, among other things. One of the drawers was emptier than the other, and even though Kyle didn't feel right rummaging through Craig's belongings, he figured it wouldn't be such a big deal if he just quickly condensed the two drawers down to one; everything would fit, and Kyle would finally be able to unpack at least _most _of his clothes.

While moving things around, Kyle noticed something shoved in the very back of the mostly-full drawer that caught his attention; it was the ratty old blue chullo that Craig had always insisted on wearing. Kyle had wondered what the hell happened to that ugly thing after high school. Unable to contain his curiosity, he pulled out the mythic-like object to look at it up close, when a small package that had apparently been hidden inside it tumbled out into his lap. A present. Its puke green wrapping had the words "Happy Birthday" plastered all around it in bright yellow, and it had wiry red ribbon tied around it into what at one point might've been a very neatly done bow, but now it just looked sad.

_Why would Craig have an unopened birthday present?_ Kyle wondered as he flipped it around in his hands, conjuring up over-elaborate scenarios in his head. Maybe Craig never opened it because it was from his estranged biological father? Or he was told not to open it until a specific date because it was a surprise? Perhaps, even though the idea was a lot less dramatic, he'd simply forgotten to open it? _No,_ Kyle decided in the end. Knowing Craig, he probably just didn't care enough to do so.

He was about to put it back in the drawer when something glinted from beneath the gift: a sticker tag that had **KYLE B** written on it in a similar fashion as the post-it note from earlier. It was undoubtedly Craig's handwriting, though considerably neater.

Kyle stared down at the package in sheer confusion. This wasn't a present for Craig—it was for _him_. At least… he was pretty sure it was? No, it had to be. Kyle B: Kyle Broflovski! Who else could it have possibly been? There wasn't anyone else in town with whom he shared a name with so there was no doubt about it. But that still didn't answer _why_ Craig had it—and for how long? There was no way that thing wasn't absolutely ancient; the paper it'd been wrapped in was slightly ripped around the edges, and the ends of the ribbons were frayed. He even noticed a thin layer of dust when he rubbed his fingers together afterwards.

Kyle had just begun to dig his fingers into the torn parts of the paper to try and get a good look at whatever was supposed to be inside when a shadow was suddenly cast over him, blocking out the already small amount of light he'd been using to see. He saw a pair of filthy yellow Converse that were all too familiar from his peripheral vision. It felt as if ice water had been shot directly into his veins.

"What are you doing."

Kyle reflexively stuffed the gift between his thighs as he tried to string together a half-believable and semi-coherent excuse. How much had Craig seen? Where did he come from? Kyle hadn't even heard the front door open! God—Charlie was absolutely _useless_ as a watchdog.

"What? I-I'm just—" He swallowed and chanced a proper look up at Craig's looming figure. Judging by the lack of fury in his eyes, Kyle assumed that he must've been in the clear. If anything, Craig seemed genuinely confused and a bit irritated. "I'm putting my things away! What does it look it?"

Craig bent over and snatched his old worn hat from Kyle's lap. He tossed it onto the pile of other stuff in the drawer.

_Too close_, Kyle thought as he squeezed his legs together. Concealing the present wasn't hard since it was pretty small, but it was by no means comfortable.

"Don't snoop around."

"I'm not!" Kyle argued defensively. "I was just making room for my clothes—the closet's full and the other drawers barely close as it is!"

With a corner of his mouth tucked in, Craig got down on one knee and quickly finished the job that Kyle had started, slamming the full drawer shut afterwards. He gave the empty one a nonchalant kick.

"Then use this one," he said, "and stop going through other people's things. It's rude."

Kyle wanted to tell Craig once more that he wasn't but figured that might not be the best move for someone in his current position. From his place on the floor looking up, Craig looked intimidating, and Kyle didn't want to chance having his fingers stomped on. "What are you even doing back so early?" he asked instead.

"I'm on lunch," Craig said. "Forgot something, so I came back."

"What'd you forget?"

Craig didn't answer. Kyle watched as he rummaged around one of the top drawers instead, pulling out a small white and red box that was unmistakable in its contents.

"Cigarettes?"

Craig hummed.

"You smoke?"

"Sometimes."

Kyle watched as Craig not-so-expertly fingered a single cigarette out and dropped the pack onto the dresser. This came as news to him; he couldn't recall ever seeing Craig smoke before. Maybe he just never noticed? After all, it wasn't like he was with Craig 24/7. Now that he though about it, he did find one on the floor when he was cleaning earlier—and didn't Craig have one in the kitchen that morning?

"Why?"

"Calms the nerves."

"Is something bothering you?"

"What the hell am I being interrogated for? You're the one who's rifling around my room, so if anyone should be asking questions it's _me_," Craig suddenly snapped out of nowhere.

Kyle, who hadn't expected that reaction in the least, was taken aback. "I was just looking out for you du—Craig," he reasoned, hands up in defense for the second time that day. This was starting to become a routine. "Smoking's fucking gross. Nobody wants to kiss a smoker."

"Who cares."

"I do!"

"Well then good thing nobody's forcing you to make out with me, huh," Craig said flippantly. "Just because Broflovski doesn't like cigarettes means that anyone who smokes is disgusting and untouchable. Fucking incredible."

"That's not what I meant, asshole! Stop twisting my words around!"

"So then does that mean you would?"

"Would _what?_"

"Kiss someone that smokes."

Craig looked serious, eyes demanding and brows slightly furrowed as he stared Kyle down for an answer. It made Kyle uneasy; not only because of how weirdly dead set Craig seemed on hearing it, but because he was now painfully aware of a new, strange type of tension building between them that had never existed before. Some sort of line had clearly just been crossed—or rather it had been drawn, marked, and _then_ crossed over all in a matter of seconds, because as far as Kyle knew, there never even _was_ a line.

Unless… maybe there had been, and he just never noticed?

Ridiculous.

"Whether I would or wouldn't doesn't matter because I'm marrying Stan," Kyle eventually answered. Though he was almost a hundred percent certain that there was absolutely nothing between them aside from mere tolerance, he wanted to play it safe.

"Right," Craig said, instantly reverting back to his normal disinterested self. That was good. Back to familiar territory. Kyle could handle this a lot better than whatever _that_ had just been. In the midst of his calming reassurance, Craig snatched the pack of cigarettes from the dresser.

"Wait, you're leaving already?" Kyle asked futilely as Craig turned and left in silence. The sound of the front door slamming made him wonder if maybe he'd actually upset Craig by avoiding the question.

Kyle quickly discarded that thought, because so what? Even if he did say whether or not he'd do it, what would that even prove? What benefit would Craig of all people get from that information? What kind of question _was _that, anyway?

Legs beginning to cramp, Kyle started to get back up when the corner of something poked sharply into his thigh. Oh right, the present! Now that Craig was gone he could examine it freely; the bow was even more crumpled than before. Oh well. Wasn't like it was in perfect condition when he found it to begin with.

He gave the present a couple shakes and ran his fingers over the newly acquired shallow dent. Whatever it was, it seemed to bend pretty easily, and he could probably crush it without too much effort. What the hell was it supposed to be? It was so light, too.

Then he had an idea—why not open it? It was risky, but who knew if that thing would ever see the light of day again? There was no telling how long it'd already been sitting in the back of Craig's dresser drawer for, especially when Craig's been living in the same place all these years; and seeing as how much of a neat freak Craig tended to be, it just didn't make sense for a birthday present of all things to be tossed in with the rest of this junk. There was only one logical answer: These drawers are a place where things he didn't care about but simply couldn't get rid of for whatever reason went to die. Out of sight, out of mind. In short, there was no way Craig would miss it.

Plus it _did _have Kyle's name on it, so in a sense it was technically his to open.

It was such a shitty excuse but he didn't care. He wanted to—no, _needed_ to know what the hell was inside. Because to hold onto something for so long that it collected dust must've meant that it had to be something really impressive, right?

So you could imagine Kyle's disappointment when he unwrapped a plain, two-dollar pack of playing cards. How boring. Then again, probably to be expected.

_Yeah. Craig definitely isn't going to miss this_, Kyle thought as he looked it over, unimpressed. Was this really supposed to be a birthday gift for him? Why would Craig wrap a deck of playing cards of all things? An old one at that—the edges of the box were badly scratched and torn and the back was noticeably stained with some sort beverage. _Seriously, it wouldn't have killed him to at least buy a new deck. Jeez._

Wanting to see how badly the actual cards must've been damaged, Kyle opened the top and dumped the stack into his hand. The first thing he noticed was the sliver of black foam stuffed inside, keeping the cards firmly in place. Then he noticed that there were actually a lot of them missing. Like, _a lot_. Lastly he realized that they weren't standard playing cards, but collectible sports trading cards.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself as he thumbed through the small handful of cards, all basketball players. He didn't recognize all of them but he did most, especially two of them in particular, who he'd looked to for inspiration when he was younger; not because they were good, but because they were also considered short in the world of basketball.

There couldn't have been more than ten cards but they were all in excellent condition. Whether that meant anything when it came to their worth was another story—Kyle wasn't much for card collecting—but if the dates on them held any significance then who knew? Most of them were from the late 90s and early 2000s, with the oldest one dating 1977. That card in particular was of a Colorado Buffalos player.

So Craig had bought these for him. Huh. Kyle carefully slipped the cards back into the box as he mulled over this newfound information. It was an odd concept to wrap his head around—Craig had never given him a present before, let alone even showed up to his birthday parties past age nine. Not to mention, it was an oddly thoughtful gift.

_A little too thoughtful_, Kyle thought, now less interested in the fact that Craig had even got him a birthday present rather than how Craig, a guy who didn't give two shits about anything, was able to pick out something so strangely considerate as a gift for someone he was hardly acquainted with. Plus, how did he know Kyle liked basketball? Did Craig actually notice that he was on the basketball team in high school? Had Craig maybe gone to any of his games? Did Craig pick out those cards with the shorter players knowing that Kyle admired them? And most of all, why would Craig get him a birthday gift anyway? It'd make sense if it were from Stan or Kenny, but giving a present to a guy you barely know—

Kyle froze.

No way. Just—_no_.

That was absolutely impossible!

He tried to shake the outrageous idea that Craig—_Craig Tucker_, of all people—had a crush on him. There was no way it could be true! That awkward tension from earlier was just—it was just _tension_, plain and simple! Nothing else! What the hell was Kyle _thinking?_

But… it _did_ make sense, he had to admit. Why else would a guy get another guy that he barely knew a present? And guessing by the contents and the physical wear that was on the gift wrap itself, it must've dated back to at least high school. Boys that age _especially_ don't just go around giving gifts unless there's a reason. If anything, the answer was only too clear.

No—Kyle wasn't about to start jumping to conclusions. He was sure there was a perfectly good explanation that didn't end in Craig actually having a thing for him at some point in their lives. He just had to wait for Craig to get home so that they could set the record straight. That's all.

Kyle sighed.

He should've never opened the damned thing.

* * *

Kyle's heart practically jumped up into his throat when he heard the front door open that evening.

"You're back. Finally," he said as Craig went about his normal after-work routine, kicking his shoes off and dropping his jacket onto the arm of the couch. He was home later than usual. "Clyde was here a little while ago but he left. Something about helping Tweek around the shop for a bit."

Craig ignored him, making his way towards the fridge.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I already took it," Kyle said, trying his best to sound nonchalant when he heard the sound of the butter compartment door flip up. "It was getting late, and I didn't know if you'd even want to give me another injection."

Kyle broke into a cold sweat when Craig peered at him over the fridge door.

"I thought it was obvious that I would do it."

"Well I didn't want to assume anything."

It might not've seemed like Craig was miffed to the average person, but Kyle could tell that he was; especially if the way he tossed his keys and his cigarettes onto the counter was any indication. That was bad, because it only served to add fuel to the idea that Craig actually—no. Craig was just simply a creature of habit. It only made sense that he'd get irritated by having his routine thrown off.

_But he's only done it twice._

"What's that."

Jostled from his thoughts, Kyle followed Craig's line of sight to the stovetop. Antsy and unable to settle down after opening the present that was now stuffed in his pocket, Kyle had decided to put his newfound nervous energy to good use once his throat had gone sore from rehearsing what he'd say in the mirror over and over.

"Chicken soup. Want some? It's pretty good."

"No."

Craig's stomach growled between them.

"Sit down, I'll heat some up for you," Kyle ordered, waving him out of the kitchen. Craig didn't put up much of a fight aside from a shrug and took up residence in Kyle's previous spot at the island counter. Kyle could feel Craig's eyes glued to him as he flitted around the kitchen. He didn't look away until Kyle pointedly dropped the bowl of soup in front of him.

Kyle watched as Craig took a few experimental bites. He seemed wary about it, as if he were expecting for it to be laced with rat poison or something, but seemed to relax when he didn't immediately drop dead. Before Kyle knew it, Craig was shoveling soup into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.

"Good?" Kyle asked. It came out sounding a bit smug but he couldn't help it. Seeing someone actually enjoy the food that you made had a powerful feeling to it, especially when that person was Craig Tucker. From his place leaning against the stove he could see that the once nearly-full pack of Marlboro's was almost empty. No wonder Craig smelled like an ashtray.

Craig slowed down considerably, as if he realized he'd done something wrong. "It's okay," he mumbled. The half-empty bowl said otherwise.

"Thanks. It's my mom's recipe."

"Good for her."

"So how was work?" Kyle tried making small talk. He wanted to get Craig's defenses down before he laid it all out on the, er, _counter,_ both figuratively and literally; because even though he knew that he couldn't possibly avoid the _total_ onslaught of Craig's definite wrath-to-come, he could at least butter the guy up enough so that the blow wouldn't be so bad. It was a little something he'd learned in his Psych 101 class years ago and often used on his clients and, occasionally, Stan.

"It was a thing," Craig answered boredly as he poked around the bowl. "Some idiot traded me a concert ticket to see Daft Punk next month for two free movies, so that happened."

"Yeah?" Kyle wasn't really listening. He was too busy palming his pocket anxiously, waiting for the right moment.

"Yup," Craig said with his mouth full. He swallowed before continuing: "Jokes on him though 'cause those tickets are super hard to come by since they rarely ever go on tour lately. Not too expensive but they sell out so quick it's unreal."

Something about Daft Punk. Concert tickets. Trading. "How many did you get?"

"One."

"One?" Kyle echoed in disbelief, completely thrown from his train of thought. "Just one?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're gonna go alone?"

"You sound surprised."

"Who the hell goes to a concert alone?"

"Me, myself, and who cares." Craig slurped up another spoonful of soup. It made Kyle grind his teeth. "No way I'm missing out on seeing one of my favorite bands. And I go to shows alone all the time. It's not a big deal."

Kyle had had enough with the small talk. Craig was about as buttered up as he was ever going to get, and those cards were starting to burn a hole in his pocket; he needed to do this now before he lost his nerve. Besides, Kyle didn't know how much more he could take listening to Craig slurp soup like an animal. So without any sort of warning, he slapped the box of cards onto the counter in between the two of them.

Craig shut up almost immediately. He glanced from the box to Kyle in blatant stupor, then back down at the box, until it seemed to finally click. "Where did you get this," he asked, sounding eerily calm.

"It was in the dresser drawer—the bottom one," Kyle was quick to clarify. "It had my name on it."

"You went through my things."

"Didn't you hear me? I said it had my _name_ on it," Kyle repeated, tapping the box of cards for emphasis because obviously Craig wasn't seeing the big picture here. "What would _you_ do if _you _found something with your name on it? You wouldn't—"

"I told you not to go through my shit!" Craig bellowed out of nowhere, standing up in a bout of anger. "Don't you fucking know what _boundaries _are?" The chair clattering to the floor behind him only made an already-freaked out Kyle all the more anxious. He could only stare back, frozen in place as Craig glared down at him with furious eyes and a clenched jaw. His psych class did not prepare him for this.

"Look," he tried to reason, but Craig was having none of it.

"Get out."

"Seriously?" he asked in disbelief. Though he worried that the chances of the empty soup bowl becoming a dangerous projectile in the very near future were pretty high, he needed to stand his ground. "What? No, listen to me—"

"I said _get out_."

"Jesus Christ, dude—what's the big deal? They're just cards!"

"They're not just cards."

"Sorry—_collectibles_."

Apparently Craig leaving was an unexplored option as well.

"Hey—hey, wait! Stop!" Kyle shouted as Craig bolted for the front door, which was about as useful as, well, nothing. When that became clear, he went after him, chasing Craig down the stairs and across the pavement towards the parking lot. It was windy outside, but that didn't slow Craig down from storming across the gravel like he'd just found his lover in bed with someone else and was going to get his shotgun out of the trunk. Kyle regretted running after him barefoot.

"God dammit, Craig! Fucking—_ow!_ Hold on! Where the hell are you even going!"

"Good," Kyle heard Craig mutter harshly, presumably about him stepping on what felt like pins and needles. Fuck him. Kyle _should've_ laced that soup with rat poison. Such a fine opportunity gone to waste.

While Kyle was busy examining the damage to his heel after a particularly sharp pebble, he heard a car door open and slam shut. "Oh no you don't," he whispered heatedly under his breath as he forced himself to power through, hopping from foot to foot in the most awkward way while avoiding bits and pieces of glass and bottle caps. He pounded on the window, which Craig ignored. He was _not _about to let Craig leave; that asshole had some serious explaining to do. "You're not going anywhere before you tell me what your fucking problem is!"

Literally. Because as Kyle watched Craig frantically pat down his pockets, he remembered that Craig didn't grab his keys before dashing out of the apartment like a bat out of hell. Craig must've realized it too, because he beat a fist against the steering wheel and dragged his hands down his face. With their future conversation now ensured, Kyle arrogantly crossed his arms over his chest.

"Great. Now that you're finished, come out. We need to talk."

Craig jammed the automatic locks in place and flipped Kyle both middle fingers, pressing them up against the glass so that Kyle could get a good look.

"Oh my God." Kyle sighed. "Really? Really, Craig? Are we six, now?"

Craig answered by mimicking Kyle, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead, his attention fixed on the blue community dumpster.

"Nevermind—_five._" Kyle scoffed. He was absolutely astonished by Craig's level of immaturity—even _Stan_ didn't do this shit. He waited a few moments to give Craig a chance to simmer down and stop being an ass, but when Craig wouldn't even turn to look his way after a whole two minutes, Kyle's patience was through.

"Craig—!" He coughed and cleared his throat. He needed to stay calm and refrain from pounding the window like a madman. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried again: "Craig, c'mon. There's nothing to get upset about, okay? They're just—they're trading cards, right? Who cares!"

No reaction.

"Look, I'm sorry for going through your things. In retrospect I totally understand why you're angry, and—and you have every right to be! I get it, I really do. But won't you at least tell me why you got them for me? Or _when?_"

Still nothing.

"Dammit, Craig!" Kyle slapped an open palm against the window. Trying to be reasonable was getting him nowhere with this waste of space. "Stop being a fucking idiot and just talk to me! You're acting like a goddamn child who's pissed because someone found out he had a crush on them or something!" he shouted furiously. Craig was going to be the cause of at least three ulcers that summer. "Okay, if you seriously wanted to suck my dick that fucking badly, then fine—but stop acting like such a pussy and at least own up to it!"

That seemed to do the trick.

"T-that's not what I meant," he stammered when Craig finally returned his stare. He hadn't of meant to say that, but his nerves were shot and he was so mad that nothing else seemed to be working to get Craig's attention that his unfiltered thoughts began spewing like word vomit before he even had a chance to stop himself. Even worse, he was completely unprepared for this totally new expression from Craig's ever-limited repertoire; one of hesitation and fear, and probably just a smidgen compared to the usual abundance of annoyance. Kyle couldn't believe it; was Craig actually scared? Or _nervous?_ How was he supposed to even react to that? Dull Craig, Angry Craig, Spiteful Craig—even the occasional Sorta Nice Craig—these were the Craigs that Kyle knew how to deal with. But _Nervous Craig?_ Apparently Clyde hadn't of been lying when he said that confrontation made Craig nervous, then. Still, it was such a strange new concept to Kyle, who had been under the notion that Craig was incapable of feeling, let alone _showing_ any other emotions aside from the usual ones.

Or actually, maybe he did see this side of Craig at least once before—twice if he was remembering correctly. They were fleeting moments that held no real significance, but for some reason they came to mind: the first time at his 14th birthday party when Craig had shown up uninvited and ditched before Kyle had the chance to talk to him, and the second during the fireworks show on the lawn of Magic Kingdom. Though it'd been dark and was hard to see the look on Craig's face before he ran off without finishing whatever it was that he was trying to say, Kyle was pretty sure that Craig had been a nervous wreck that evening.

_Wait a minute._

"Hold on," Kyle mumbled to himself, because that didn't make sense. What did Craig ever have to be nervous about? And with Kyle, of all people? Now that he thought about it, what _did_ Craig want to talk to him about back then? Did it have anything to do with why Craig seemed so anxious at his birthday party, or even now? Did that mean Kyle wasn't exactly _wrong_ about Craig wanting to… "_Seriously?_"

Craig immediately turned the other way.

Kyle sighed and leaned against the rear car door, watching the sun as it began to set behind the apartment building. That was all Kyle needed to confirm his earlier suspicions about Craig and the birthday gift. Even though in the back of his mind it had been obvious—it was the only logical explanation, after all, and Kyle was nothing if not logical—it still came as a shock to him nonetheless.

He couldn't help but close his eyes and laugh.

_And to think, that fucker scammed me out of five grand when he probably would've done it for free_.

* * *

Meanwhile back home, Stan was helping Gary move the last of his things into his brand new apartment.

"Thanks again for the help, Stan," Gary said as he took the large box labeled **LIVING ROOM **from him. He set it on top of a few others that were piled up in the corner. "You have no idea how helpful you've been—there's no way I could've got that couch up here on my own!"

"Don't worry about it," Stan assured him. His muscles were a bit sore from all the heavy lifting but that was to be expected. At least it was over with now. "I barely broke a sweat."

"Still—at least let me treat you to dinner?"

"That'd be awesome, actually."

"Great. Just let me finish up here and we can head out then."

Gary picked up the hammer and nails he'd put down before taking the box from Stan earlier. While Gary kept himself occupied with that, Stan wandered around the apartment, peeking inside the different rooms out of curiosity. He couldn't help but wonder why someone with such deep pockets would want a simple, modest one-bedroom flat that was practically above the transit lines.

Then again, it was Gary.

They'd ended up at a little twenty-four hour breakfast diner after running into each other earlier that week. Stan knew the place because he used to go there all the time when he first moved to New York but he didn't mention a word about it to Gary; nor did he advise him against ordering the salty, overcooked hash browns. He simply watched as Gary looked over the menu in deep thought, as if he were contemplating a life or death situation. Stan must've looked like an idiot, sitting there in his gym shorts, staring dumbfoundedly across the table at a man who looked as if he were photoshopped there.

"I told my father when I was completely sure about it—me being gay, I mean," Gary had suddenly said, breaking the temporary silence between them. "He was the only one I told, you know, since we were really close—and he seemed… alright about it. Not ecstatic, but not upset. So I figured that was that." Gary chewed his lip a for a moment before finally taking his eyes off the menu since they'd been seated. Stan's first instinct was to look away, but he didn't. "The next week I came back from class, the locks were changed and my things were out on the front lawn. I didn't see it coming."

"Oh. Wow." Stan didn't know what to say to that, mostly because he'd been the one to suggest even telling his parents back in high school after Gary had come to him with such a serious issue that he didn't feel nearly as qualified to handle as he might've been. "I'm uh… really sorry, dude."

Stan must've been easy to read because Gary was quick to assure him that it wasn't his fault in the least. After getting kicked out, he'd taken shelter at his church where his bishop offered him an open room in return for a bit of extra volunteer work. It'd been awkward avoiding his family during gatherings for the first couple of weeks but it was better than being out on the street. In fact, things had even been looking up for a while; until the end of the semester rolled around and Bishop Johnson, who'd recently learned the truth about the situation from Gary's father, began asking questions.

"He wanted me to attend straight camp," Gary had explained, referring to Bishop Johnson. "I wasn't too sure about it. I'd always heard bad things about those kinds of places, but I told him I would give it a try anyway."

Stan was intrigued. "You went to straight camp?"

"Nah." Gary shook his head. "I ended up packing my things and leaving that weekend after the semester was over."

Apparently while looking online for somewhere to go, he'd found a new kind of church he'd never heard of before—a uni-_something_ was what he'd called it—and decided to take a chance. According to him, that two hour bus ride upstate was the best decision he'd ever made. It was there in Ogden at this new church where Gary was able to find a place to call home, at least until he could get himself on his feet. In the meantime, he transferred schools and continued pursuing his degree, which he switched from majoring in theology to business instead.

"Have you ever heard of Unitarian Universalism, Stan?" Gary had asked with a twinkle in his eye. Stan shook his head, a bit wary of this new religion. "Oh, it's great! The people are so nice and open and caring—you'll have to let me tell you more about it sometime. Actually, I'm pretty sure there's a congregation around here somewhere."

"We can talk about that later," Stan told him. "You still haven't actually explained what you're doing here in New York."

It wasn't long before Gary was able to afford his own apartment with the help of the church and a part-time job at a bookstore, and when his time in college came to an end, he'd even managed to have a small bit of savings stashed away. So with his business degree in one hand and a withdrawal slip in the other, he decided to put them to good use.

"Wait—that's _you?_" Stan had balked, unable to process what he'd just heard. That was the name that had been printed all over the documents he'd been forced to look over for the past two and a half weeks. "_You're_ the guy who owns that company?"

"Actually it's a non-profit; a 501c3," Gary corrected him. "It's sort of affiliated with the Unitarian Universalist church but for the most part it's non-denominational."

"But if you're the person who owns it, then that means—"

"Yeah. Sorry about wasting your time," Gary apologized with a sheepish grin. "Most of those numbers were fudged so badly—I just wanted to make sure I'd have the chance to talk to you. The organization doesn't have nearly as much as that portfolio I sent in made it seem. In retrospect, it was a bit over the top."

"Yet you can still afford to move here."

"What can I say? Things have been going surprisingly well over the past few years, so I thought I'd head out east and open up another location."

"But there's nothing I can actually you help with, is there?" Stan asked bluntly. He'd have been lying if he said he wasn't at least a little upset over finding out that his first real client turned out to be a total fake.

"Not as an investment banker, no."

"Then as what?"

"A good friend."

"A good friend?" Stan asked, because why now? What about all those years before? Stan didn't mean to sound so skeptical, but between the unreturned voicemails, Gary's phone suddenly getting disconnected, and his Facebook profile disappearing into thin air, it was like Gary had fallen off the face of the planet and he didn't want anyone to bother looking for him. "I'm confused. I mean, you show up out of nowhere after all this time time and _lie_ about being my client because you want to be _friends?_ It's just… weird," Stan said, trying to make sense of it all. "So forgive me if I sound rude but can you blame me? You've been sending me some seriously mixed signals, man. More so than when we were back in high school."

Gary sighed. "I completely understand, and you have _every_ right to be upset—but I just want you to know that I really didn't mean to cause you any trouble, Stan. It was just—with everything happening, I needed to clear my head and focus on myself for a while."

"_For seven years?_"

"I know, I know." He cringed. "You don't have a _clue_ how horrible I feel. But that's sort of why I'm here now; to make up for the lost time! Well, if you'll let me, of course."

Stan stared down into his almost-drained coffee mug. "I really wish you'd of called me sometime, at least to let me know you were alright, Gary," he mumbled. While he appreciated Gary's enthusiasm, as forced as it might've been, he was still a bit unsure about how he felt about the situation. "I thought you might've actually hated me or something."

Stan's train of thought was sidetracked when a hand reached across the table and covered his own. Looking up he was met with a gentle smile and warm blue eyes. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"You were the first real friend I had that I could talk to about _anything_. How could I possibly hate you?" Gary murmured, his voice low and deep. It sent shivers down Stan's spine. "Actually," he started with a bit of a nervous laugh. He pulled his hand away and sat back in his seat. "That ridiculous idea of yours couldn't be farther from the truth."

"Which is…?"

"That I still care about you. A lot."

"Well you certainly don't waste time, do you," Stan joked with a lifted brow. He felt uncharacteristically giddy beneath his mostly-calm and collected exterior. He needed to play it cool. "It only took you seven whole years to let me in on this little secret."

Gary frowned. "Like I said: If you'll let me, I'd like to make up for all the lost time. It's why I'm here. _Please_," he begged. "Maybe we could even pick up from where we last left off… if that's alright with you."

Stan gulped.

"You mean, at school… when you told me…?"

Gary nodded.

Stan knew he should've said no—he was about to be married, for Christ's sake—but the prospect of finally exploring the possibility of what could have been from so long ago was just so _tempting_. He'd always wondered what might've happened to them if Gary hadn't of moved away during their last year, before he and Kyle finally put an official name on their relationship and left for New York. Though he'd been known to flip flop between Kyle and Wendy for some time back then due to his indecisive yet well-meaning nature, he'd always had a strange affinity for Gary, despite their vast differences. Things just always felt _right_ with him. Too bad he never got to find out what the grass was like over there.

Well, now he could.

He promised himself he'd call Kyle as soon as he was alone and had the chance—Stan might've been a little too curious for his own good, always afraid of missing out on something important, but by no means was he a cheater. He'd be up front and honest with Kyle—well, for the most part. Besides, he really needed to know what that weird message about dinner from his mom was about.

"Just one question: how did you even find me?"

"You _do_ know you've got a profile on LinkedIn, right?"

"Oh. Yeah." He didn't. One of these days he'd have to have a serious talk with Kyle. "I knew that."

"You know, our apartments are pretty close," Stan thought aloud as he came to a stop in front of the large living room windows overlooking the street below back in the present time. Not being a fan of heights, he kept a bit of distance. He never understood what it was about humans that made them want to live in boxes that were ten, twenty, sometimes even thirty floors up. "Walking distance. Don't even need to take the bus."

"Yeah?"

"You mean you didn't notice?"

"Well I suppose I did," Gary said as he marked a spot on the wall with a pencil. "You were the one who suggested the place though, so I didn't think it was necessarily a bad thing."

"It's not bad. It's like, the total opposite of bad."

Gary laughed and looked over his shoulder at Stan. "The total opposite of bad?"

"Don't make fun of me." Stan huffed.

"I'm not making fun of you!" Despite what Gary said, he continued to laugh. "It's just—how do I put this? You're, um. Oh, _you know._"

"I know?" Stan mimicked Gary, though unintentional.

"Yeah. You're… like what you'd call a puppy, or a kitten. That."

"Cute?" Stan asked. Gary quickly turned back around before nodding his affirmation. Stan, amused by Gary's sudden bashfulness, was not about to let this go. "Dude, you're still having problems with saying something like _that?_"

"This is all still kinda new to me, you know; being out? In the open?" Gary told him. "Last time I told someone about it I was disowned; by my family _and _my church, Stan. It's serious."

"Not to sound insensitive or anything but like, dude. My tongue was in your mouth. Like, an hour ago," reminded him bluntly. "And I'm pretty sure our dicks were totally touching last night. You need to relax."

Gary blushed and went back to hanging his photos. "It's not like I had much of a choice in that matter. You sort of ambushed me out of nowhere after you came back in from that 'business call' or whatever it was. You'd think a guy could get a bit of a warning before you kiss him for the first time."

"Don't even pretend like you didn't like it."

Gary chuckled. "Nah. Actually, I've been waiting for another one." Stan was going to crack a joke about he was planning on making Gary wait until he shaved that itchy five o'clock shadow of his, but Gary decided to follow up and ask, "So what was that call about, anyway? You said it was really important."

"Oh, uh." Stan shook his head. "Nothing _that_ important."

"You sure? Because you were up pretty late. I woke up last night and saw you on the balcony with a good three or four empty beer bottles, Stan."

"Trust me, it was just work-related stuff; had me a bit stressed out is all. I'm fine though, really," Stan lied. In reality he'd been feeling like absolute shit about what was happening with him and Kyle—not to mention the sudden newfound development between Kyle and Craig, too—and regret _might_ have been settling in over his not-so-thought out decision of seeing other people. Craig was never supposed to be part of the equation.

"Alright. I trust you. Just don't be afraid to come talk to me if you need to, okay?" Gary assured him with a small, warm grin. It only served to make Stan feel even worse about everything because not only had he more or less handed Kyle over to _Craig Tucker_ of all people for the time being, but now he was dragging Gary through the dirt as well.

Stan tried his best to push all of these intrusive thoughts to the side as he kept his focus solely on the man in front of him; the one that looked as if he'd stepped off the cover of a magazine earlier that week but was now standing tall with his messy blonde hair, stubble, an old black t-shirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. He was still as handsome as ever, and sometimes it even made Stan feel queasy. Right now though, he was feeling more aroused than anything. Gary had a weird effect on him.

"You should finish that later," Stan suggested as he walked up behind him. He took the hammer out of Gary's grip and dropped it on the ground next to them, then wrapped his arms around the other man's waist. He let his fingers fumble with the already-loose belt buckle. "I'm kinda hungry."

"Do you want to make dinner together again? I went grocery shopping earlier," Gary asked innocently. Stan laughed at Gary's naivety and gave him a quick peck on the lips. Though he had something a little _different_ in mind, he couldn't pass up that offer. "Or we can order in. Chinese?"

"No, let's stay in and cook. Italian," Stan said, then gave Gary's belt a tug. "But I'm thinking I'd like American for desert," he added in a whisper. He knew it was probably one of the cheesiest things he'd ever said, and Kyle would have no doubt laughed in his face, but Gary—innocent, virgin-like, pure Gary—shuddered.

How long he expected to keep up this charade was not something he'd actually planned for. Sooner or later shit would hit the fan, and Gary would find out the truth. For now though, all he could do was lay in the bed that he'd made—and he intended to do so, repeatedly.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I know you're probably eager to catch up and see what's going on with Craig and Kyle, but these next two chapters are flashbacks and serve as a sort of intermission to mark the middle of the story before Shit™ starts happening. It was originally going to be just one but I broke them into two since it was just too long.

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far through this story! Your patience and appreciation means the world to me :)

* * *

**12 Years Ago, South Park Middle School**

**Monday 8:15 AM**

"Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance—or don't. I honestly couldn't give a rat's ass," Mr. Whitman said when the first period bell finished ringing. He fluffed up his newspaper as some of the 8th graders did stand. Most, however, turned to their tablemates to talk instead, only pausing momentarily to hear the day's lunch menu when the school announcements came on.

Craig traced his pencil eraser lightly under the sentence he'd re-written for the fourth time that morning: _You wouldn't hit an old man now, would you?_ It was a line from a short screenplay he'd been working on in the AV club for the past weekend, and though he might not've looked it, he was beyond stressed over this project; his backpack full of crumpled outlines and his chewed-down fingernails served as evidence.

Teacher talking. Papers shuffling. Chairs dragging. Kids getting louder. Lost in his own world, Craig didn't even notice someone taking the empty seat next to him until the strap of a gray canvas messenger bag flopped over onto one of his turned-over outline rough drafts.

"That's Clyde's seat," he mumbled without sparing a glance.

"I know, but Clyde's not here today and neither is Stan, so Mr. Whitman said for us to pair up," the person—Kyle Broflovski—explained. Craig looked over just in time to see him carefully scooting his chair in so that he wouldn't make too much noise. Pointless amidst the sea of crazy around them.

"Where's your boyfriend at, anyway."

"He's out sick—and he's not my boyfriend," Kyle snapped. "Why does everyone say that?" Craig ignored him as Mr. Whitman passed out rubric guidelines with the speed of a shambling corpse with a bum leg, but even he wasn't as oblivious to prying eyes as a certain redhead must've thought. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Homework for another class?"

"Sure."

"Whoa—you _wrote_ all that?" Kyle asked as he craned his neck to get a better look at whatever Craig was working on, seemingly mesmerized by the blocks of sloppily-written text. "Looks like you're writing a _book,_ dude. Your hand's gotta hurt like hell!"

"It's not that bad. I'm used to it."

"But still. Why not just type it up or something? It'd be easier, not to mention _faster_."

Craig shrugged. He'd always preferred to write things out longhand rather than type them up. It felt more authentic that way, as if what he was working on had actual meaning to it. It was also easier for him to focus on a physical piece of paper instead of a virtual one. Rather than tell Kyle these things though, Craig snatched the tossed-aside outline from him when he went to flip it over. Kyle seemed a bit peeved but said nothing.

"Alright shitbags, now listen up!" Mr. Whitman called from the front of the room. He had a cup with a bunch of folded up pieces of paper in it. His orders were for one person from each group to come up and pick one—whatever they got was the country they had to do their project on.

Most of the kids groaned at their choices. Cartman was the loudest.

"Canadia? Who the fuck gives a shit about Canadia?" he complained. "They're not even a country—they're more like a giant retard factory!"

"It's _Canada_," Kyle corrected him. "And that's fucking offensive, you idiot. You said the same thing about Mexico."

"No _Kahl_. Mexico is America's _slave_ factory. Duh."

"Eric Cartman!" Mr. Whitman bellowed. Cartman rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath as he stomped back over to his table, falling heavily into his chair. The teacher nodded for Craig's table to come up next. Kyle jumped at the opportunity.

"What'd you get, Kahl?" Cartman asked. No answer. "Kahl, I asked what you got!"

Craig glanced up to see Kyle looking down at this hands with a somewhat troubled expression as he came back to the table, purposely avoiding eye contact with Cartman on the way. Against his better judgement, Craig had to ask: "What's wrong."

Kyle shook his head. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

Craig didn't need to be told twice. He really didn't. But the way Kyle was tearing at the edges of the slip of paper only served to make him wonder.

An airborne piece of pink eraser found its way to their table, landing between the two of them.

"Psst! Kahl!" Cartman whisper-shouted from two tables over. Kyle refused to acknowledge his existence, choosing to focus his undivided attention on Mr. Whitman instead. Cartman was not happy with this. "Goddammit, Kahl. Hey!"

"I think Cartman's trying to get your attention," Craig said.

"I don't care."

"Psst! I said hey!" Cartman continued. When it was clear that Kyle was not about to cave any time soon, Cartman decided to try a different approach. Another piece of eraser flung its way over, this time pelting Craig in the temple. "Hey, you! Yeah—with the fucked up teeth! Craig!"

Craig turned and stared.

"What do you want."

"Oh nothing. I was just wondering what that magnificent perfume is that you're—what the hell do you _think_ I want, Craig!" Cartman hissed sarcastically. When Craig didn't budge he heaved a dramatic sigh. "Jesus H. Christ, are the _both_ of you stupid? What country did you guys get!"

"Oh." Craig glanced back at his table mate who was still anxiously tearing at the edges of the paper. It was upside down, but not too hard to read. "Israel."

The gut-busting laughter that followed was unexpected to say the least. "Hahaha! You're so funny, Craig! Good one. Never thought you had it in you," Cartman said as he comically wiped away tears. Craig didn't get what was so humorous. "Seriously though. What'd you get?"

"I told you. Israel."

The smirk on Cartman's face turned sour in an instant. "Wait, for real?" Craig, missing the rhetorical note in Cartman's voice, leaned over to check the slip of paper in Kyle's now-trembling hands once more. He nodded in affirmation. "Hey, Mr. Whitman! That's not fair!"

"Eric, for the love of God—"

"You can't let Kahl have Jewland for the project! That's cheating! That's fuckin' illegal!"

"'Jewland'? Eric, what the hell are you going on about?"

"Kahl's a fuckin' _kike_, that's what I'm goin' on about!" Cartman's loud, obnoxious voice pierced through the whole room, drowning out all of the other conversations taking place among the rest of the class. "And everyone knows that kikes have, like, _everything_ about Jewland practically _hardwired_ into them! That and their love of filthy Jew gold! And bland food!"

"Shut the fuck up, fatass!" Kyle finally joined in, throwing his textbook across the room and hitting Cartman square in the face with it. Cartman yelped, unable to dodge in time. Craig, more or less used to the already pretty common occurrence of the two of them fighting during class, was busy musing over a certain word that he couldn't recall ever hearing before.

"If you aren't gonna behave then I'm gonna have the _both_ of you go to the principal's office. Now sit down and shut up!" Mr. Whitman shouted with a finger pointed at Kyle, who had gotten up out of his seat in order to aim at Cartman better. With a huff, Kyle unceremoniously flopped back down and folded his arms over his chest.

"Nice shot," Craig complimented. He'd always been a bit of a fan of Kyle's outbursts, especially when Cartman was on the receiving end. They might not've been friends, but Craig could appreciate a good book to the face when he saw one.

"Yeah, well. He had it coming."

"Yeah." Craig nudged his textbook over towards Kyle in order to share. As Kyle took it upon himself to flip to the chapter that would probably be best to start their assignment with, Craig couldn't help but ask, "Hey, what's a kike?"

Kyle paused. "Excuse me?"

"Cartman called you a kike. What's that."

"Uh." Kyle stared at him through slitted eyes. "It's… a name?"

"For Jewish people?"

"Something like that, I guess."

"Oh. Okay."

Kyle shook his head and began looking over the rubric that the teacher handed out before. Craig returned back to scribbling out lines for his script's rough draft.

"So I'm thinking we should split up the work," Kyle suggested as he marked his own initials next to a few of the topics listed on the paper. "What do you think? Is there anything in particular here that you don't wanna do? We have to pick at least six."

Craig shrugged. "I don't care. You're the kike, so you probably know what's best."

"_Excuse me?_" Kyle asked once again, except this time he looked as if he were forcing himself to stay calm and not stab the freshly-sharpened pencil point straight into Craig's thigh. Craig, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to Kyle's quickly-budding rage.

"I said you're the kike," Craig clarified bluntly. Unfortunately he didn't have a chance to finish that sentence before momentarily losing consciousness. When he came to, he was sprawled out on the cold tile floor, staring up at the mold-infested ceiling.

"That's it! Get out!" Mr. Whitman shouted in Craig's general direction from somewhere above. There was the sound of a backpack being zipped up and chair legs scratching against the floor next to his ears. Craig squinted to keep the light out of his eyes, but was still able to make out the menacing figure looming above him as they hastily picked up their things. He waited until they left, stepping over his head to get to the door, before pushing himself to sit up. his head throbbed.

"Holy shit, dude. Kyle fucked your face _up_." Cartman whistled. "See why you can't trust Jews, Craig? They're totally unstable. It's just not safe!"

"Eric," Mr. Whitman warned.

"We should just round 'em all up and—"

"_Eric!_"

Craig, still a bit dazed and confused, carefully poked and prodded around his face. His nose hurt the worst. Whether or not it was broken was beyond his knowledge, but it definitely didn't feel _right_. Then there was the unmistakable feeling of thick, warm rivulets of blood running down over his lips. He dragged the back of his wrist across his mouth to stem the mess but jolted when he felt a sharp pain somewhere he really didn't want to. Eyes wide, he cautiously ran his tongue over his teeth. One of the front bottoms were a lot more loose than he remembered.

"Are you alright, Craig?" Mr. Whitman's hand found its way to Craig's shoulder. He grimaced when he got a good look at the damage up close. "Your lip is busted, son. Go on down to the nurse's office."

Craig was too out of it to give a coherent response, so Kenny ended up escorting him.

* * *

**Friday 10:05 AM**

The walk down to the nurse's office had felt almost surreal in a sense, being led through what seemed like endless hallways and corridors by a tight grip on his upper arm. The overhead fluorescent lights in the clinic were brighter than usual, blinding almost, and Kenny had been shooting off at the mouth a mile a minute. What was he saying? Craig couldn't tell. Everything sounded as if he were underwater, so he could only make out bits and pieces. The nurse's shrill, worried gasp at the sight of his undoubtedly bloodied face was hard to miss.

In the end he got off better than he'd initially wagered: a bloody nose, a split lip, a minor concussion, a little bit of bruising, and, thankfully, all of his teeth would stay put. He went home early that day, playing off the pounding headache he'd earned from when his head met the floor. Though the physical damage wasn't nearly as bad as it seemed, it still hurt like hell.

Even worse, Craig would have been lying if he said that the whole ordeal didn't mentally shake him up at least a little bit. It was pretty obvious, even to himself. He couldn't remember ever going out of his way to purposely avoid someone like he did over the next few days, skipping out on his world history class in lieu of loitering the halls, or how he suddenly had to put in effort to look everywhere but at _that_ table during lunch. Every waking moment at school was plagued by some sort of looming unease thanks to one Kyle Broflovski, and it was driving him nuts.

Hell, he wasn't even safe at home, where on more than one occasion Kyle managed to unknowingly infiltrate his thoughts. Nights dangerous because that was when his often-unsettled thoughts regarding the boy took a more licentious turn. The second night in particular was the worst, when he found his hand wandering south as he lie in bed. In his defense he _was_ half awake and not entirely aware of what he was doing, and at fourteen years old, touching yourself before falling asleep was mere habit. Regardless, he had to stop short of his release when that splitting migraine of his threatened to start back up with all the excitement. Craig might've been just as hormonal as the next teenage boy, but by no means was he masochistic.

Which was exactly why Craig had just spent the whole forty-five minutes of gym class as far away from Kyle as possible. Clyde didn't ask why Craig insisted that the two of them hang out beneath the bleachers and share the last of a joint rather than join the rest of the class out on the field, which Craig was thankful for, because he wasn't exactly prepared to attempt and worm his way out of that conversation. Avoiding Kyle was already stressful enough; and why Kyle looked so annoyed whenever he accidentally caught his eye was beyond Craig—it wasn't like Kyle was the one who almost had their nose broken. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should've been _him_.

The locker room would be a nightmare since everyone was in close quarters, so Craig took off as soon as the teacher blew their whistle and signaled for everyone to round up. he made quick work of grabbing his things and even managed to get a head start on his way to his next class since he didn't need to change his clothes. Again, Clyde didn't really question him; probably because he was too busy tripping over his own shoelaces, but whatever. Feeling a bit more relaxed, Craig was ready to get the rest of the day over with and usher in the weekend.

Math was boring as hell, but since he didn't have it with Kyle he welcomed it with open arms. Things were no different today than they usually were; Kenny was fast asleep in the seat next to him, Wendy was steadily taking notes and asking the occasional question, and Stan was in the very back, daydreaming and doing who-knows-what because Craig never cared enough to actually pay attention. According to Clyde, he and Stan had gotten paired up for the history project since they were the only two left without partners. Australia didn't sound like such a bad assignment.

Someone tapped his shoulder.

"Can I borrow a pencil?" Kenny asked. His dirty blonde hair was disheveled and sticking out from beneath his turned-up hood. He had a bit of drool in the corner of his pale, chapped lips. Gross.

"I thought you were sleeping."

"I am, but I gotta make it look like I'm at least _trying_ to work on these," he said, gesturing down at the problems in the textbook that he more than likely had turned to the wrong page.

"You're not gonna shove it up your ass like the last ten I let you borrow, are you."

Kenny laughed. "You'd like to see that, wouldn't you?"

It was normal for the two of them to joke around like that, but Kenny's harmless jab at his sexuality hit a bit of a nerve thanks to recent events. Craig didn't mention another word about Kenny's habit of losing pencils and leaned over to grab one from his backpack.

Something was off. Feeling as if he were being watched he glanced around for a moment, only to notice Stan staring straight at him from the back. Occasionally he'd catch Stan watching him the past few days, but Stan always played it off as if he were simply looking around the room. This time, however, Stan made no attempt to look away. It was almost like he knew he'd been caught and was stuck in fight or flight mode.

"Earth to Craig!" Kenny interrupted an already kind of spaced-out Craig who was having enough trouble trying to decide whether or not he should flip Stan off or just ignore him altogether. "I still need a pencil."

"Oh. Here."

"Thanks, man." Kenny took it and gave Craig an unreciprocated fistbump in return. Kenny frowned. "Dude—how fucking high _are_ you?"

"I'm not."

"Don't play dumb with me, Craig. I was the one who sold you your first dime bag, remember?" Kenny reminded him. When Craig didn't answer, Kenny sighed and began to rummage through his own backpack. He tossed Craig a small travel-sized bottle of Febreeze. "Use that before science."

Craig looked over his shoulder, but this time Stan was too busy texting.

"Why."

"Because you smell like you just hotboxed the utility closet and Mrs. P will send you down to administration as soon as she gets a whiff of your ass," Kenny told him matter-of-factly. Craig didn't argue, tossing it into his own backpack for later. Maybe he shouldn't have skipped out on changing for gym class.

The rest of class went by uneventfully as usual. There was a pop quiz that Craig just barely managed to pass by the skin of his teeth, and Kenny, of course, never returned the pencil that he borrowed. Either way, after fifty gruelingly-long minutes, he was finally free.

"Hey!"

Someone slammed into Craig before he had the chance to look and see who it was, pushing him into the old metal lockers on his right. Startled, his first instinct was to turn around and swing a reflexively-balled fist at whoever decided to fuck with him because Craig Tucker did _not_ take shit from anyone lying down, but instead he ended up giving his offender a hard shove to the chest when he realized who it was.

"What the hell was that for?" Kyle asked heatedly as he caught himself from stumbling backwards. "Are you _trying_ to start a fight or something?"

"Hey—you slammed into _me_."

"I was just trying to catch you before you ran off or something. Maybe if you weren't skipping class so much and avoiding me I wouldn't of had to do that, but trying to get your attention is fucking impossible."

Craig prickled. "I'm not avoiding you."

"Bullshit."

Seriously—why Craig had held off from just decking him in the face was a mystery.

Craig rolled his eyes in an attempt to act as natural as possible and hiked his backpack up over his shoulder; no doubt _that'd_ be sore tomorrow. Just what he needed. "Well, what do you want."

"What I _want_ is for you to start being somewhat useful. Look, I don't care if you don't wanna work together, but at least do your share of the goddamn work, okay? I'm not gonna let you bring my grade down just because you wanna be a petty asshole." Kyle thrusted a handful of papers that he'd produced mid speech from his backpack into Craig's hand. "These are some of the notes I took in class. Read through them and meet me in the library for lunch."

"I—"

"Don't care. See you after next period," Kyle said, cutting off Craig's oncoming excuse for why he couldn't make it and took his leave, meeting up with Stan who'd apparently been watching and waiting over by the water fountain. Craig was left in the hall as the bell rang for a second time, letting him know that he was late for class. He glanced down at the small stack of notes in his hand and groaned.

He'd been _so close_ to being home free for the weekend.

* * *

**Friday 12:05 PM**

Kyle was tapping his pen rhythmically against the table when Craig finally showed up. "You're late," he pointed out, clearly annoyed. "What took you so long?"

Craig held up a half-eaten PB&amp;J.

"I was hungry."

"There's no way you managed to waste twenty minutes getting a sandwich. Seriously—did you get lost along the way or something? You _have _actually been here before, right?"

Neither finding the library nor Kyle was the issue; the library was one of the most popular places in the school and it was almost impossible to miss Kyle's bright-green hat. In truth, Craig had wasted a good bit of time loitering outside the media center doors, mentally preparing himself since he didn't have enough time to do so during science. Looking through Kyle's neurotically-organized history notes while simultaneously paying attention in class wasn't easy, and to make matters worse he sort of lost focus somewhere along the lines of "popular tourist destinations in Israel" and found himself more interested in Kyle's handwriting than anything else. He couldn't help it—it was just so _neat_.

It was also not lost on him how strange it was to be mesmerized by another guy's handwriting, which he realized when Mrs. Parker barked his name to get his attention.

"The lines were long."

Kyle sighed. "Well now we only have twenty minutes to work on the project, so c'mon," he said, gesturing for Craig to take the seat next to him.

While Craig was tasked with the job of sifting through stale old newspapers to find relevant headlines on Israel within the past six months, Kyle was busy preparing the short six-minute speech they'd need to give together, using Craig as a silent, unenthusiastic springboard to practice on and bounce his ideas off of. Honestly, Craig wasn't even sure if it was really necessary for him to be there since Kyle seemed to have everything under control. Oh well. He made sure to give the occasional nod and did his best to look busy in order to appease Kyle.

"So you're gonna do the religion part of the speech, alright? I think what we have here should be good." Kyle dusted the stray eraser bits from the notecards and held them up. "What do you think?"

Craig thought it'd make more sense for Kyle to do it since he actually _was_ Jewish, but he kept that to himself. His goal was simply to survive these last ten minutes without incurring any more bodily damage. "Sure."

"Great. So did you find anything yet?"

"Uh." Craig tried to turn to another page as inconspicuously as one possibly could when handling a newspaper. He didn't need Kyle to know that for the past five minutes he'd actually been reading comic strips. "Not yet."

"Why not? We don't have all day, you know." Kyle clicked his tongue. He tugged the newspaper out of Craig's hand to look over it himself, then tossed it aside and gave Craig a different one to skim through instead.

"I know."

"Then what's taking you so long?"

Craig bit his tongue as he forced himself not to crush the newspaper in his fist. He didn't need to say anything he'd regret. "I'm working on it, Broflovski," he managed to bite out with as little animosity as possible. Sitting next to Kyle was not nearly as nerve-racking as he'd expected it to be. It was odd, actually; he felt none of the usual anxiety and nervousness he'd been feeling the past few days whenever Kyle came to mind. If anything he was starting to feel _irritated_. If Kyle tried to pull the shit that he had in class earlier that week now, Craig was confident that he wouldn't be caught off guard and would not hesitate to return the favor.

That's right. He was just caught off guard.

"Are you going to read that or what?" Kyle interrupted Craig's sudden moment of clarity, throwing him off-kilter once again. He batted the newspaper in question with another one, making the musty old smell spread. Craig never wanted to be paired up with him ever again.

"No, I'm holding this up for fun. I love making my arms tired," he said, then sniffed and tried to scrunch up his nose without making it hurt too bad.

"You're not funny."

"I'm totally being—" Craig stopped mid-sentence to let out the ungodly sneeze that'd been creeping up on him for the past minute or so. Tiny droplets of blood splattered across the spread out newspaper. "Fuck!" he exclaimed and cupped his nose. That _hurt_.

"Fucking—gross, Craig! What the hell!" Kyle spazzed and leaned away. Craig was too busy nursing his throbbing nose and checking his hands to make sure that he hadn't of started a nose bleed. "Haven't you ever heard of covering your mouth? You got blood everywhere!"

"That wasn't my _mouth_."

"That doesn't change the fact that that's fucking disgusting." Kyle grimaced as he picked up the barely-tainted notecards with the tips of his fingers as if it were infected. There really wasn't all that much blood; Kyle was simply being overdramatic. "Now I have to rewrite all of this!"

"Well I wouldn't be sneezing blood if it weren't for you punching me in the face."

"And I wouldn't have punched you if you hadn't of called me a kike!"

"I didn't even know what that word _meant_."

"Liar—I told you what it was!"

"You didn't tell me it was a _bad_ word, though," Craig reminded him bluntly, wiping his nose gently on the inside of the collar of his shirt. It was still healing and he had to be careful. "Do you seriously think I'd of called you a—_that_ if I knew you were going to go all Floyd Mayweather on me?"

Kyle didn't give anything more than a small _hmph_ in response, choosing to cross his arms and look off to the side instead. Craig, when he was sure that he didn't have to worry about a nosebleed, began to gather up the newspapers that needed to be thrown away.

"Are your teeth alright?"

"What?"

"I asked if your teeth are alright," Kyle said, sounding reluctant to talk but eager to be heard. Craig had heard him just fine the first time but didn't quite understand what he meant. "When I, you know. Hit you? I felt something kinda sharp. See?" He held up a fist, showing off a small scratch on one of his knuckles. The skin was broken but it didn't look like anything much. Still, Craig felt oddly smitten to know that Kyle had not walked away completely unscathed.

"Oh. Yeah, they're fine."

"Cool, cause it felt like I hit one of those little metal things and I was kinda worried I might've seriously messed something up with your braces," Kyle continued. "You _do_ have braces, right? I'm not just imagining things?" Craig nodded. "When do you get them off?"

"Um." Craig scrambled to try and figure out how to answer that without actually speaking. He wasn't for this new change of topic; the less attention he brought to his teeth, the better. Couldn't Kyle go back to ignoring him for the most part like he'd just been doing? "I dunno."

"Can I see?"

"No."

"Why not? They can't be _that_ bad," Kyle coaxed. Craig was steadfast in his decision though, staring at him until he got his point across. It didn't take long for Kyle to throw in the towel. "Fine, forget it. I don't see what you're so defensive about though," he said, then went back to re-writing his notes.

Now with Kyle's attention focused on the assignment rather than on him, Craig felt kind of upset. Which was weird, because didn't he want nothing more than for Kyle to stop talking just a few seconds ago? And since when did that anxious, uneasy feeling come back? Craig chalked it up to Kyle's dark green eyes that always seemed to be judging everyone around him until it dawned on Craig just what the hell he was thinking.

"Well I guess that's all we can get done for today, so…" Kyle mused boredly as he began to pack away his things. Craig didn't like that. He didn't appreciate the disinterested tone of his voice that mimicked his own, nor the fact that Kyle was apparently eager to get away from him. As Kyle began to stand up, Craig did the only thing he could think of that would stop him without actually saying anything and held out the rough draft he'd been working on in class earlier that week.

"Huh? What's this? Are these notes?"

"No. It's uh. What you were trying to look at the other day," Craig explained, keeping his face at an angle so as not to draw too much attention to his mouth.

"What's it supposed to be?"

"A script."

"Like for a movie?"

"Sort of."

Kyle perked up considerably. "Oh dude, neat! Can I really look at it?"

"Is this where you've been all lunch?" someone interrupted before Kyle had the chance to take the paper. The both of them turned around to see Stan with a sweating can of Dr. Pepper in one hand and a foil-wrapped burger in the other. "Me and the guys have been waiting for you."

"I _told_ you I'd be in the library for lunch, Stan."

"You did?"

"Yes. Like, three times."

"Oh. Well, I brought you lunch just in case. They had burgers today and I know you love them," Stan said. Kyle's eyes lit up at the mention of food and gratefully took the burger from his super best friend. When he went to lift the bun, Stan assured him, "No pickles."

"You're the best, dude," Kyle thanked him and took a bite. Stan grinned. Craig, who was starting to feel like a third wheel, began to quietly gather up his own things to leave. Stan, apparently, was not about to let that happen without drawing attention.

"Why are you with Craig?" he asked, and though it was probably a serious question that wasn't meant to sound rude or offensive at all, it made Craig burn with irritation at the way it came out.

"Because Craig and I were working on the project? Jeez." Kyle rolled his eyes. "I even told you to tell him for like two days straight now during your class together that I needed to talk to him about it!"

"Shit. Yeah, I guess I forgot to do that," Stan admitted sheepishly.

"I knew you would. That's why I took care of it myself. Where the hell is your head lately?"

"To be honest, I've been kinda preoccupied with planning for tomorrow; that's actually why I came to get you. We're still leaving after lunch, right?"

"Oh! I totally forgot!" Kyle handed his food to the nearest person—Craig—as he rounded up a few books from the table. He looked at the clock; there were only a couple of minutes left before lunch was over. "Let me go check these out real quick and we can go. I'll be right back!" he said, then made a dash for the front desk. Craig and Stan were left standing there in one of the most awkward situations ever, the both of them staring openly at one another. Stan was the first to break the silence.

"So… what's been up?"

"Is that why you were watching me," Craig asked dully in regards to Kyle's earlier comments about Stan "supposedly" forgetting to talk to him. Now things made a lot more sense.

"What? I haven't been _watching_ you." Stan scoffed. It was obvious that he wasn't being completely honest because Stan had a habit of doing that whenever he wasn't telling the truth—that, and the fact that he was an absolute shit liar and everyone knew it. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. I was just wondering why you've been watching me."

"Didn't I just—whatever." Stan shook his head and made a grab for the food in Craig's hands. "Here, give me those."

"He said he'd be right back," Craig snapped. He probably looked weird holding a bit-into burger and a can of soda hostage but he didn't care; he wasn't about to just hand them over to this self-entitled asshole. Whether it had anything to do with Kyle was beyond the point; Craig had his own reasons for not caring for Stan, starting back in the 4th grade with those ridiculous scause bracelets.

"Dude, that's great and everything but—"

"Don't call me that."

"—we're kind of in a hurry to leave, so I can just take them to him."

"But school's not out for another two hours."

"Kyle's birthday is tomorrow so we've gotta finish up a few last minute things for the party," Stan explained, sounding as if he'd only said it a million times before. "Everyone's gonna be there. It's gonna be awesome."

Craig blinked. "Kyle didn't mention anything about a birthday party."

"Yeah, well you called him a kike, so." Stan shrugged. The bell rang. "Can I have that now?"

Craig didn't answer, but neither did he make any attempt to resist when Stan went to take the food once more. Because how come didn't get an invite? Sure, he might not've gone to Kyle's birthday parties for the past four years and he more than likely wasn't about to start going now, but still; he should at least have gotten an invitation like he always did. The thought of being the only one singled out was kind of upsetting.

Wait.

"Is Cartman going?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Wow. So he was even lower than _that_ piece of shit. Awesome.

"What kind of stuff is he into."

"Cartman?"

"No. Kyle."

Stan lifted a brow. "That's kind of a weird question. Why do you wanna know?"

"No reason."

"Uh. Hmm…" Stan hesitated for a moment. Whether it was out of thought or because he was trying to figure Craig out, who knew. Either way, after a few seconds he shrugged. "He likes basketball."

"Basketball."

"Yeah. He's been trying to get on the school team for like, ever now, but he's never tall enough. He did kinda hit a growth spurt recently though, so I think he's gonna try out again next year," Stan elaborated. Then he frowned. "Wait, does this have something to do with his—"

The bell ringing cut Stan short, and, as if someone had suddenly lit a fire under his ass, he snatched Kyle's messenger bag from the chair and rushed for the front where Kyle was standing, hunched over the counter and chatting amiably with the person behind it. Craig didn't understand why he was in such a hurry, but whatever. He watched as the two of them exchanged a few words and punched each other's shoulder playfully before leaving without even looking back once. Jealousy was not an emotion that he was familiar with.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** This chapter is the longest I've ever written, and thankfully wraps up the flashback. I had such a hard time writing this chapter about halfway though, and I never want to see this chapter again tbh. Good riddance.

* * *

**12 Years Ago, Broflovski House (Cont.)**

**Saturday 9:45 PM**

Craig stood on the sidewalk in front of the Broflovski residence and watched as throngs of teenagers went in and out the front door. The house was lit up like the Fourth of July and the windows were practically buzzing from how loud the music was. The suffocating smell of BBQ wafting from over the fenced-in backyard was impossible to ignore as it made his stomach growl.

Coming here was a mistake.

He fumbled awkwardly with the small package in his hand; a neatly-wrapped birthday present from yours truly to one Kyle Broflovski. Why did he think showing up unannounced was a good idea again? Because it wasn't. First of all, he wasn't even invited. Second, there were _way_ too many people. Third, what kind of guy gives another guy that he barely knows a birthday present? That's so _weird_. Worst of all it wasn't even anything good, just an assortment of collectible trading cards he'd picked out from the local board game shop a few hours ago and stuffed into an old playing card box he'd found lying around in his basement.

He did the numbers in his head: If he left now he could probably make it home before the temperature dropped even lower and he froze to death on the side of the road in a ditch somewhere. Those didn't seem like such bad odds.

No. He did _not_ walk all that way to just stand outside Kyle's house for five minutes, think about grilled hotdogs, and leave. Did Craig spend the last of his allowance on some dumb basketball cards? Sure, yeah. Maybe he did. And maybe it _was_ kind of weird for him to get Kyle a gift when he wasn't even invited to his birthday party. But that didn't mean shit, alright? He didn't need a reason, nor did he have one. He was just going off of his gut feeling here, and right now his gut was telling him: (1) that BBQ smelled _delicious_, and (2) to stop dawdling around and get this shit over with. He loosened the collar of his jacket like he would a tie and took a deep breath before starting up the walkway.

_Just give Kyle the present and leave. Just give Kyle the present and leave. Just give Kyle the present and leave_, he repeated over and over in his head like some sort of mantra as he squeezed past the girls hanging around the entryway. There were hardly any familiar faces that stood out to him among the dozens of kids there. Seriously, who _were_ all these people? Did Kyle's parents know what was going on? And more importantly, who the hell was in charge of music? Eventually he found himself a safe spot near the stereo system to claim as a sort of lookout; a prime location to see everyone around the bottom floor of the house without constantly bumping into people. From there he could clearly see Kevin Stoley texting on the staircase, and Bebe and Red dancing with some other girl that Craig couldn't put a name to in the hall. Even Cartman's fat self could be spotted from around the corner in the kitchen raiding Kyle's fridge.

Okay, so there were _some_ people at the party that Craig recognized. Still, none of them were exactly who he was looking for, so he continued to scan the crowd for a familiar head full of red curls. Then he began to wonder: What if he's upstairs? Should he go look? Should he try texting him? Did he even have Kyle's number?

"Craig? What are you doing here?" a familiar voice called out. Craig whipped around so fast that he almost knocked himself into the very person he'd been looking for. Not his smoothest moment but at least Kyle's red plastic cup went unspilled.

"Oh. Hey."

"What are you doing here?" Kyle leaned in and repeated, this time a little more loudly. He must've thought that Craig hadn't of heard him the first time—which he had. He just didn't know how to answer the question. After all, Craig wasn't entirely sure what he was doing there himself.

"Stan… uh," Craig mumbled awkwardly. He could practically feel the body heat radiating from Kyle, who was too close for comfort.

"Huh? I can't—ugh, follow me. It's too loud over here and I can barely hear you. You talk too quietly," Kyle shouted over the music and grabbed Craig by the wrist, leading him towards the kitchen. Craig felt his heart jump into his throat at the sudden contact. A warning would have been nice.

The kitchen was a welcomed change of pace from the rest of the house since it wasn't as crowded and Craig could think a bit easier. The place was a downright certifiable mess, though; so many used and abandoned plastic cups littered the counters and there were half-empty soda bottles encircling plates of hotdogs and burgers on a plastic fold-out table against the wall.

"Now what were you saying back there?"

Craig subconsciously rubbed the spot on his arm where Kyle's hand had just been seconds ago. Was his face red? He felt like his face might've been red. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh. Well what are you doing here then? Did you come with Clyde?"

"Clyde's here?"

"Who else do you think is responsible for this music?" Kyle joked. Craig thought he had a point; that terrible playlist _did_ seem to have Clyde's name written all over it. "But yeah, I think he went upstairs to charge his phone for a bit. So I'm guessing you _didn't _come with him then."

"Stan told me it was your birthday."

Kyle seemed confused. "He did?"

_Just give him the present and leave._

A loud crash from the other side of the kitchen stole everyone's attention.

"Oh my gosh! Stanley, are you alright?" Butters' voice could be heard cutting through the commotion. Had Butters' always been in the kitchen with them? Better yet, where the hell did Stan even come from? And why was he gripping the counter like he was trying to hold on for dear life?

"Not again," Kyle groaned. Craig watched as he abandon their conversation to go and deal with his super best friend, who had his forehead pressed against the top cupboard door with his eyes screwed shut. There were small appliances and spilled drinks on the floor around him. "Stan, what the hell are you doing?"

"I think I'm gonna throw up," was Stan's groggy reply. Kyle tried to pry his fingers from the counter and stand him up right but Stan was not having it. "No. No, don't—don't do that."

"You need to stand up straight or else you _are_ gonna throw up. Besides, if you're going to puke again I'd rather you not do it here. Go back outside."

"I said stop," Stan grumbled as he tried to shoulder away Kyle's invading hands. Kyle persisted. "Stop!"

"Dammit, Stan!" Kyle shouted and threw his hands up. "Fine. Do what you want. It's not like you listen anyway."

"That's not true," Stan slurred.

"Really? Then tell me—how many more shots have you had since I told you to fucking _quit_ an hour ago?" Kyle asked hotly. "God, we're not even supposed to _have_ alcohol here. We're only fourteen!"

"But you said—"

"O_ne_. I told you _one_ birthday shot! Just one!"

Craig tucked the gift he'd almost managed to give to Kyle into his jacket pocket as he watched the two of them bicker from across the room. Watching Stan fight to keep his head up while Kyle berated him was awkward to say the least. Hell, it might've actually been enjoyable if it were under different circumstances. Right now though, Craig was just uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," Stan eventually gave in after a long silence. He thumped his head against the cupboard as if he were punishing himself. "I'm so fucking sorry, dude. I'm… I'm trash. I'm the worst. I'm so sorry."

"No—hey, stop that." Kyle sighed as he tried to pull Stan away from the counter once more. This time he succeeded. He draped Stan's arm across his shoulder as he held the slightly-taller boy up, steadily walking him towards the hall. "C'mon, let's go upstairs and lay down for a while, alright? You'll feel better then."

The both them disappeared out of the kitchen and Craig was left alone again, this time with an even worse opinion of Stan than he had five minutes ago. Whether it was because Stan was a messy drunk or because he had not-so-graciously interrupted something kind of important, Craig didn't know. What he _did_ know, however, was that he hated the way Kyle's arm was gingerly wrapped around his side, because Stan didn't deserve that. Stan deserved a punch to the face like Craig had gotten.

Maybe Craig was overreacting.

Without a reason to stick around, Craig threaded his way through the crowd and stumbled out the front door. He'd considered making himself a plate and just waiting for Kyle to come back, but what was the point? Who knew how long Kyle would've been gone for; he didn't want to just stand around like an idiot. Besides, the house was way too stuffy with all those bodies and he needed to breathe. A nice long walk back home in the cold would probably do him some good.

_What a stupid idea_, he thought as he thumbed the small package. He couldn't believe he'd actually done that. What was he thinking, showing up to Kyle's party unannounced with the intention of giving him a birthday present? Did he actually think he'd go through with it? Why? And what the hell did he expect would even happen if he did? God, he was such an idiot.

"Yo, Fucker!"

Craig turned around at the familiar sound of his bastardized name being called out enthusiastically from behind. There Kenny McCormick was, coming up the street with a large cardboard box in hand, and for some reason he was accompanied by Wendy Testaburger. Craig went to continue on his way home but was reprimanded with a loud, "Hold on a second!" He groaned and waited under a streetlight until the both of them made their way over.

"Where the hell are you haulin' ass to this late at night?"

"Home."

"A man of few words, as usual." Kenny laughed. Craig did not find him funny. Actually, at the moment he found him rather annoying. It was too cold to stand around outside chitchatting and all Craig wanted to do was get as far away from that party as possible. "You coming from Kyle's?"

"Hey Ken, it's really cold so I'll meet you inside, alright?" Wendy chimed in from next to him as she rubbed her arms up and down for warmth. Kenny nodded and gave her an acknowledging nudge, shooting her a small smile and an, "Alright. Thanks again, Wends," under his breath.

"Since when do you hang out with Wendy?" Craig asked when she was out of earshot in an attempt to divert the focus of the conversation from himself. He took note of how Kenny kept his eyes on her until she disappeared into the Broflovski residence.

"She saw my last quarter grades for math and totally freaked, so she's been helping me out for some time now. I told her not to worry about it but she insisted. Doesn't want me failing 'cause then I won't be able to start high school with everyone next year," Kenny explained.

"You probably wouldn't need her help if you didn't sleep in class all the time."

"She's _crazy_ smart, dude."

"What's with the box."

"Oh, nothing really. Just a bunch of hand-me-downs from Wendy's place. She was going through her old things and put a box together for Karen. Sweet, right?" Kenny gushed. "I dunno if she'll fit into any of this stuff yet but she'll probably grow into it. She's gonna be _so_ excited, man."

"For fuck's sake, would you stop verbally jacking off about Wendy already? She's dating Marsh, you know," Craig snapped. He was getting real sick of having to freeze his ass off because Kenny felt like waxing poetic about someone else's girlfriend.

Kenny seemed to realize what he'd been doing and cleared his throat. "I'm not. I was just saying it was a really nice thing for her to do," he said defensively, but Craig wasn't stupid. "And what are you talking about? They broke up like, a months ago."

"They always do that."

"Yeah, but this time things are different. Things have been _happening_, man."

Craig wasn't following. "What the hell are you talking about, McCormick."

"Hey, what's with the last name? I thought we were friends!"

"Not when you're wasting my time. You're about to have your 'dude' privileges revoked, too."

"You mean you really haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what."

Kenny shook his head. "Uh-uh. I ain't saying nothing. I'm practically like a human diary for everyone in this town and I can't just go spilling people's secrets like that. I'm a trustworthy guy, you know. I've got too much riding on my reputation."

Craig turned to leave.

"Whoa, whoa. Alright. Fine." Kenny rushed around to stop Craig in his tracks. Craig considered knocking the box out of his hands. He'd probably feel better. "Well, for starters, Kyle's gay."

"Everyone knows that," Craig said flatly. It was hardly a secret that Kyle Broflovski was about as straight as a wet noodle after Cartman had outed him earlier that school year. Much to that fat asshole's displeasure, nobody had really cared. Well, except for Bebe, but that was to be expected.

"Yeah, but Stan and Wendy have been having a lot more problems since he came out," Kenny continued passionately, as if he were talking about some sort of crazy government conspiracy theory. "Even Wendy says Stan's been acting different. It's kinda fishy, don't you think?"

"One's an alcoholic and the other's a raging social justice warrior. What the hell do you expect."

"Nevermind, man. You just don't get it." Kenny sighed. "I guess I forgot how oblivious you could be."

Craig prickled. "I'm not oblivious. You're just being cryptic as fuck."

"Well I can't just _tell_ you everyone's secrets!"

"Can I go now."

"Eh, whatever. I guess." Kenny shrugged and glanced back at Kyle's house. "I should probably hurry up and get inside; this box is heavy as shit and I'm starving. Plus, you know, gotta wish Kyle a happy birthday and all that jazz. You coming?"

Craig glared at him. His scabbed lip and still-bruised cheek should have been enough of an answer.

Kenny chuckled. "Yeah, it'd probably be wise to stay out of Kyle's sights for a while. Ah, well. See ya!" Kenny freed a hand to give him a quick half-assed salute before jogging away and up the steps to Kyle's house. Finally free from that pointless conversation, Craig started off for home.

His phone vibrated minutes later.

**Kenny gave me your number, hope that's alright. Did you leave? Anyway, come over tomorrow so we can work on the project. How does 6 sound? - K.B.**

* * *

**Sunday 6:35 AM**

"I still can't believe you seriously came this early," Kyle mumbled tiredly as he padded down the stairs with his laptop and some art supplies. The project was due tomorrow and they hadn't even started on putting a poster together yet.

"You said to come at six."

"Yeah._ In the afternoon_," Kyle said. "Seriously, who goes to someone's house at six in the morning? I barely even got any sleep last night; I was up till three cleaning up after the party and dealing with Stan."

In retrospect, Craig _did_ realize that it was pretty stupid for him to ever think that coming over before the sun was even out was a good idea, but in his defense he hadn't of slept at all and wasn't exactly thinking straight. Most of the previous night had been spent spread across his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to calm his racing thoughts for more than a few minutes. Falling asleep had not been in the cards for him.

The two of them made themselves comfortable on the floor in front of the coffee table with their backs against the sofa. Apparently Stan was upstairs sleeping so they had to work in the living room, which Craig had no qualms about. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about being alone with Kyle in his bedroom when he was already anxious enough sitting next to him in such an open, neutral space.

They worked in silence for the most part, aside from some back and forth banter between them. It was mostly just Kyle talking about the project, but occasionally he'd throw in something about last night's party, like how he hadn't expected for so many people to show up or how Kenny tried to sneak a Ziploc bag full of burger patties home. Craig was just relieved that Kyle apparently had no intentions of bringing up the fact he'd been there uninvited.

They both looked up at the sound of the front door unlocking.

"Oh, good morning, boys! You're up early," Kyle's father, Gerald, exclaimed. Sheila was right behind him, wrapped up in a heavy coat and dragging along a small rolling suitcase.

"Hey Ma, hey Dad. How was Denver?"

"It was nice—the hotel was lovely," Sheila assured him. "Did your brother come home last night?"

"No, he stayed over at his friend's house."

The Broflovskis chatted a bit more amongst themselves as Craig sat there and watched. It was kind of awkward, almost like he was imposing. He was relieved when Gerald finally said his goodbyes and headed up the stairs, but Sheila lingered just a bit longer.

"Stanley, are you alright? What happened to your face, sweetie?"

"That's not Stan, Ma. That's Craig."

"Laura's son?" she asked, doing a double take and getting a good look at the boy in question. Kyle shrugged and looked at Craig, who suddenly felt very on the spot. "Kyle, could I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?"

"But, Ma—"

"Kyle!"

Kyle groaned and followed his mother to the other room.

For someone who wanted to talk in private, Sheila wasn't a very quiet person. Her upset murmurs of, "What is Laura's son doing here?" and, "I thought I told you that I didn't want you hanging around that boy!" rang loud and clear throughout the bottom floor of the house, and so did Kyle's equally fervent replies of, "We're just working on an assignment for class," and, "Oh my god, it's not such a big deal!" Honestly, neither of them had a subtle bone in their body, and Craig wondered if the others were like them, too.

"What was that all about," he asked once Sheila had stormed off upstairs and Kyle came back to the living room. Kyle shook his head and joined him at the coffee table, picking up where he had left off with the poster.

"Nothing. She just—nothing." Kyle sighed exasperatedly. "She's just being ridiculous."

"She doesn't like me."

"What? Nobody said that."

"I heard everything," Craig told him bluntly, because he had. "Your mom hates me."

"She doesn't _hate_ you," Kyle reasoned. "She just… thinks you're a bad influence."

Craig raised a brow. "She thinks I'm a bad influence?" he asked in disbelief. It wasn't that he was particularly upset about the fact that Kyle's mother thought ill of him, but that she apparently found _him_ of all people to be a bad influence when he could think of at least two other close friends of Kyle's—three if he weren't somewhat partial to one of them himself—that would fit the bill a whole lot better.

"Well, after that whole Peru incident—"

"You guys dragged _me_ into that."

"I know, okay? But I can't change the fact that she doesn't like me hanging around you. Even Stan's mom agrees with her, you know," Kyle said. Craig opened his mouth to say something but Kyle beat him to it. "Not that that really means anything; Stan's got his own problems, after all. But my mom's just been a little more overprotective of me lately because—well, just because."

"Is it because you like guys?" Craig asked, suddenly remembering the conversation he had last night with Kenny on the side of the road. "Does she even know you're gay?"

"I mean, it was kind of hard to keep it a secret after Cartman opened his fat mouth, so yeah, she knows," Kyle answered, glancing at the staircase. "And she's cool with it, she really is. But, she's still getting used to it? Like she swears it's just a phase and she blames it on the media and everything, but it's whatever; she just goes a bit overboard sometimes, trying to '_keep me safe_' and shit. Honestly, I'm just surprised she hasn't said anything about Stan."

"Marsh is gay?"

"I meant about how he has a drinking problem. Stan's straight," Kyle assured him, then added some time after, "for the most part, I think."

"What do you mean?" Craig asked, not even trying to hide his blatant curiosity at this point. This was the most interesting thing he'd heard all year, easily blowing Clyde's story about how Bebe had let him touch her boob behind the gymnasium out of the water.

Kyle shook his head. "It's complicated. Just forget I even said anything."

"How is it complicated? You either like girls or you like guys, right?"

"That is literally the straightest thing I've ever heard," Kyle said with a laugh. He waved him off before turning back to the assignment. "To be honest, I don't even feel like having that conversation right now. It was already draining enough to explain to my parents and I am _not_ about to stress myself out trying to explain it to you of all people."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That you're too closed minded to understand anything about the world outside of your heteronormative bubble."

"My bubble isn't heteronormalative," Craig snapped defensively. Kyle looked up from his laptop, intrigue written all across his face. Craig could only stare back. "What. What are you looking at me like that for."

"_You're_ _gay?_"

"I never said that."

"But you just said you weren't heteronormative," Kyle reminded him, looking confused. "And you're obviously not bisexual since, well, what you said about liking only one or the other, so. Wait, are you ace?"

"What?"

"You don't know what heteronormative means, do you."

"I thought you said heteronormalative."

"That's… not even a word?" Kyle sighed in resignation and went back to tapping away on his laptop, leaving Craig to stew silently in his own stupidity for blurting things out that he didn't understand for the second time that week. "I can't believe I actually thought that we might have had something in common."

"Maybe we do."

"I mean I thought you were _gay_, Craig."

"What if I am."

"But you're not. You're straight."

"I never said that."

"Are you kidding me? You just—" Kyle groaned, dragging his hands down his face in irritation. "Alright, I'm going to ask you one more time and you better tell the truth: Craig, are you gay?"

Talk about not beating around the bush. Craig opened his mouth but quickly shut it before something dumb tumbled out. For someone who didn't quite understand how a person could like both men and women, Craig was pretty confused himself. Because he was pretty sure he liked girls; he'd even dated one before—two if he wanted to get technical. Sure, his relationships might not've lasted long and they never actually kissed, but dammit, they counted. But _guys?_ No way. Guys were gross and pimply and some of them had weird patches of facial hair from hitting puberty a little too earlier than the rest of them; not exactly what Craig would consider desirable. Hell, he had a hard enough time looking at his own reflection in the mirror without cringing. That had to count for something, right?

Though to be fair, it's not like he'd ever really looked at another guy the way he looked at girls, which was already a rare phenomena due to his general lack of interest in the rest of the human population. And if he were to start now, he'd be hard pressed to deny the fact that that cheerful, knowing grin currently spreading across Kyle's face was enough to make his gut churn in ways that were completely foreign to him.

"No way... _are you serious?_" Kyle asked in disbelief, grounding Craig back in reality. He had his laptop pushed to the other side of the table now, his attention focused on Craig one-hundred and ten percent. Craig felt like he might've missed something important. "Dude, why didn't you tell me before?"

"Huh?"

"Oh god, this is insane. For a while there I was starting to think I was totally alone. It's awesome knowing there's someone else I can relate to, you know?" Craig didn't. He did know, however, that he may have just made a huge mistake. "So does anyone else know?"

"Know what."

"That you're gay? Duh." Kyle laughed and rolled his eyes. Craig didn't answer, too busy mulling over the serious repercussions that he had officially indebted himself in for the future thanks to his inability to both shut the fuck up and also answer in a timely manner lately. He could always just tell the truth; that Kyle had misunderstood and that he was straight—or at least as straight as he thought he was—but then what? Would Kyle lose interest? Why did Craig care? "Hey, don't worry, dude. I understand."

"You do?"

"You wanna keep it a secret for now, right?" Kyle shrugged nonchalantly. He reached for the remote and began flipping through the muted channels. Craig, figuring that was probably the safest option to go with in the end, didn't correct him. "I was really nervous about coming out at first too, so I get it. Your secret's totally safe with me."

"...Thanks."

"No problem. Like I said, it's kind of—oh hey, _Red Racer_'s on." The sound of a familiar theme song suddenly filled the room as Kyle turned up the volume. Craig furrowed his brows and followed Kyle's line of sight to his favorite childhood cartoon.

"You watch _Red Racer?_"

"No. You do though, right?" Kyle asked. "I remember you saying something about how you'd watch _Red Racer_ every day so I thought maybe you'd wanna watch it now while we work. We're almost done, anyway."

"Oh. Yeah." Craig hadn't of actually watched that show for some time now, but he still appreciated the gesture.

The two of them fell back into the groove of working on the poster, except this time with the background noise of the TV taking up the space their comments once filled. Every so often Craig would catch Kyle glancing up at the TV in interest, and sometimes he'd even ask Craig what was going on, questions like, "Who's he?" and, "What's that?" It was a lot easier than having to dodge potentially invasive questions about his sexuality that he wasn't even sure of himself anymore, so he answered every one of them without a single complaint.

"Jesus Christ, dude—what are you doing up so early?" Stan groaned as he trudged lazily down the stairs just as the two of them were putting the finishing touches on the poster. His features were twisted in pain, with one hand buried in his messy hair. He was still wearing the same clothes from last night.

"Morning to you too, Stan."

"Ugh, I feel like shit."

"Well maybe you wouldn't feel like that if you'd of actually listened to me for once," Kyle suggested. Stan, too hungover to really notice the bitterness in Kyle's words, just stood there with his eyes squeezed shut. Kyle sighed. "Did you take the aspirin I left on the table?" Stan nodded. "Did you take them with _water?_"

"Was that what the mug on your desk was?"

"That was two-day-old coffee."

"Then no," Stan said. Craig wondered how out of it Stan must've been to not even pay attention to what the hell he was putting in his mouth but kept quiet, save for a small cough that he couldn't hold back. Realizing that there was a third body in the room, Stan shifted his squinted-gaze to the person next to his best friend. Craig could see the metaphorical gears turning as they locked eyes, but Stan must've been too hungover to put too much thought into it because he winced, shook his head, and mumbled, "I'm not even gonna ask."

"Where are you going?" Kyle asked as Stan made his way for the front door. "I thought we were hanging out and going to see the new _Mission Impossible _movie today?"

"Can't we do that later? Preferably after I've slept for another six hours in complete darkness with no sounds and a pillow over my head?" Stan moaned. It was obvious that Kyle wasn't too happy with the last minute change of plans, but it was hard to argue with those dark bags beneath Stan's eyes. Besides, it was still too early to actually do anything, and Stan could have probably used a shower.

"Fine," Kyle huffed. "Call me?"

"For sure, dude," Stan assured him. He bid his best friend a less-than-enthusiastic goodbye before opening the door and braving the daylight. Craig got nothing.

"Well that sucks," Kyle grumbled as he pushed himself up from the ground.

"It doesn't look that bad," Craig reasoned, looking at the finished poster between them in consideration. Sure it could've used a few more pictures and a lot less tape, but it wasn't like Mr. Whitman would care.

"I wasn't talking about the poster."

"Oh."

Craig sat there awkwardly as Kyle flitted around him, cleaning up their mess and putting things away. He contemplated taking after Stan's lead and splitting since there wasn't anything else that needed to be done, but Kyle seemed to have another idea as he propped the poster up against a wall for safe keeping.

"You know what? We should do something."

* * *

**Monday 4:05 PM**

Much to Craig's surprise, Kyle's idea of "doing something" had actually been pretty uneventful. They didn't get arrested. They didn't get abducted and sent to some foreign country. Nobody lost any limbs. Neither of them died. In fact, it was a completely normal day, which was weird considering that it was spent with one-fourth of Cartman's group, but it was the truth. Even weirder, it was oddly _enjoyable_.

After wasting a couple hours on opposite ends of the couch and burning through a few different horror co-ops and fighting games, the two of them decided to head out and grab a bite to eat at Shakey's before hitting up the arcade for a bit. Craig's pockets weren't that deep—he'd spent the last of his money on those basketball cards and he wouldn't be getting his allowance till the next day—but Kyle was nice enough to foot most of the bill.

Stan never called. Well, he _texted,_ but only to tell Kyle that he still felt like he'd been hit by a train and wasn't really feeling up to hanging out at all. Kyle was kind of upset for a while, but he eventually got over it when he got a new high score on the Guitar Hero rig at the arcade. He challenged Craig to a song afterwards but Craig shot him down. Kyle called him a chicken. Craig didn't argue and went to play Pac-Man instead.

Since Stan was out of the picture, Craig somehow got roped into going to see the new _Mission Impossible_ movie in his place. He hadn't even agreed to go—they just sort of ended up there at the theatre after they'd gotten bored of the arcade—but it wasn't like Craig had _objected_ to seeing it, either. Besides, it wasn't so bad. The movie was boring as shit and Craig would have rather seen literally anything else that was currently playing, but sitting so close together in a dark, mostly-empty theatre during matinee hours had its perks. For example, Kyle had complimented him. Or maybe not—because being told that he "smelled better," as opposed to the mix of "air freshener and weed" that he'd smelled like at the library on Friday, followed up by, "You really shouldn't take Kenny's advice," wasn't exactly a compliment, but whatever. While Kyle's undivided attention was focused on the screen, Craig had plenty of time to side-eye the boy next to him without being noticed, taking his time to drink in Kyle's illuminated profile. Granted, he fell asleep thirty-five minutes in, but the much-needed nap was nice, and it gave him a bit of a boost so that he could squeeze out another hour or so to wander around town and kick rocks while listening to Kyle drone on and on passionately about some weird indie bands he'd never heard of. Eventually though, he had to make a decision between either going home immediately or passing out on the pavement from exhaustion.

In conclusion: Despite not seeming like he did, Craig actually had a lot of fun; which explained what he was currently doing on Kyle's doorstep once again, this time at a more reasonable hour and with Kyle's birthday gift.

Craig rung the doorbell and took a deep breath. He wished he could've talked to Kyle before school let out, but between the presentations in history and Craig being required to make up the mile run he'd skipped out on last week in gym, he didn't have a chance to. Plus, lunch was completely out of the question since Kyle was always surrounded by Those Guys, and Craig would sooner drink bleach than try and speak to Kyle with Cartman breathing the same air as him.

"Craig?"

"Hey, Kyle," Craig greeted him a little too eagerly. Too busy with his own thoughts, he didn't even realize that the door had swung open. Thankfully, Kyle didn't seem to care.

"What are you doing here? Did you forget something?"

"No."

"Then what's up?"

"Nothing." Craig fumbled awkwardly beneath his cool exterior for the words he'd prepared to say on the walk over. Why did they not want to come out all of a sudden? "I thought we were working on the project."

Kyle furrowed his brows. "But we finished that yesterday," he said, clearly confused. "You don't remember? We even gave our presentation."

"Yeah, no, I remember." Craig was mentally slapping himself. That was _not_ what he'd meant to say. Working under the pressure of Kyle's gaze was shaping up to be one of the most stressful situations he'd ever found himself in. He squeezed the small box in his pocket and tried again. "Are you busy?"

"Kind of. Why?"

"I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to do something."

"Oh. Well, um. I already made plans to hang out with Stan. We're going to go see the new _Mission Impossible_ movie since he couldn't yesterday."

"But you said that movie sucked."

"Dude, no—that movie sucked _ass,_" Kyle said, "but it's like, one of his favorite movie franchises and he was really looking forward to seeing it, so yeah."

Ironically, Craig didn't see the appeal of torturing one's self for two hours straight just for someone else's benefit. He shrugged. "I'll come too, then."

"What?"

"I said I'll come."

"No," Kyle blurted out, but then caught himself. "I mean, you can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's just supposed to be me and Stan," Kyle explained. "Not even Kenny or Cartman are coming."

"So like a date."

"_It's not a date_," Kyle denied vehemently, glancing over his shoulder and into the house for a moment. Craig tried to sneak a peek himself but couldn't see anything from where he was standing. "We're just hanging out."

"Then why can't I come?"

"Because…" Kyle trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words. Craig waited patiently as Kyle tried a few more times to come up with an excuse before ultimately rolling his eyes and settling on, "Aren't you worried that people will start suspecting things if we hang out too much?"

"Not really."

"Well I _am_."

"It's because of Marsh, isn't it," Craig asked, suddenly understanding why Kyle was being so damn difficult. It wasn't that Kyle was worried about keeping Craig's secret under wraps from the rest of the town; he was worried about what Stan might think if he spent too much with Craig. "You like him."

"What? No I don't!" Kyle's face was about as red as the t-shirt he was currently wearing. Craig felt like an idiot for not noticing things sooner. "This has _nothing_ to do with Stan!"

"You're such a shit liar."

Kyle sighed. "Look—you don't get it, alright? It's not… it's not _like_ that."

"But you want it to be."

"Even if I did, it wouldn't matter, okay? Stan's straight."

"I thought he was 'complicated.'"

"He _is_." Kyle groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, mimicking his best friend. Craig hated it. "Listen, if you seriously want to talk more about this, then fine. But can we do it some other time, like maybe this weekend?" Kyle offered desperately. "We can even go do something or whatever, that's cool too. But right now I _really_ need to finish getting ready; Stan's gonna be here any minute now."

"Just forget it," Craig mumbled as he turned to leave. "Good luck with Marsh."

"What? Hey—wait a second!" Kyle called out after him but he didn't stop. He didn't even look back.

Craig silently revelled in the fact that Kyle was standing there in his doorway, annoyed and possibly even hurt from being ignored as he simply walked away, until he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door calmly click shut. A quick glance back once he was a good few meters from the bottom of the driveway confirmed that, indeed, Kyle had retreated back inside without another word.

Craig kicked at the ground. He knew he'd kind of acted like a dick back there even though Kyle didn't actually do anything wrong, but that didn't stop him from being upset. He'd always prided himself on his pragmatism, but his sense of reason had gone out the window sometime last week when he actually thought buying some stupid trading cards for a guy that had punched him in the fucking _face_ was a good idea.

Shit—_the cards_.

Craig frowned at the birthday gift he'd been holding the whole time. What was he supposed to do with these now? It's not like he could return them; the shop he'd bought them from had a very clear, very strict no refund policy, punctuated by the eye-bleedingly bright-red hand-painted sign that hung on the wall behind the glass counter. And Craig would rather throw them into Stark's Pond than ever give them to Kyle, who, as far as he was concerned for the time being, could go fuck himself—or Stan, whatever. He didn't care. Then again, he'd almost spent his whole allowance on those cards, and the idea of basically throwing a twenty-dollar bill away was not something that he was sure he could see through with and still manage to sleep at night.

_Oh well,_ he thought as he shoved the tiny package into his pocket a little too forcefully. He'd figure something out eventually.

* * *

**Present Day**

"So let me get this straight: You fell in love with me... because I punched you in the face?"

"That's not what I said."

"Well that's what it sounded like."

Craig sighed and looked up at his bedroom ceiling in exasperation, because he _knew_ this would happen. He knew that, out of everything, _that_ would be the one thing that Kyle would take away from the heavily-abridged version of the story behind that old birthday present. This was exactly why he didn't want to have this discussion with him. _Ever_. God, he should've just thrown it into Stark's Pond when he had the chance. "You wanted to know about the cards. I told you about the cards."

"Dude, it stopped being about the cards when you ran out the apartment like a lunatic and locked yourself in the car," Kyle said, brows raised in concerned amusement. "Seriously, what _was_ that? I know Clyde said you weren't exactly the best with confrontation, but holy shit."

"You need to stop talking to Clyde."

"So is there more to the story?" Kyle asked, ignoring Craig's sour advice. Craig didn't answer though, choosing to glare daggers at the other man instead. Kyle didn't seem to care. "Well? Is there?"

"No."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"They're trading cards. I don't know what the fuck else you want me to tell you about them." Playing dumb did not come easily to him, but it was the only way he knew how to end this conversation as quickly as possible without digging himself into a hole, even if Kyle did see right through his act.

"I'm not talking about the cards and you know it," Kyle told him pointedly, like an elementary school teacher scolding one of their students. Craig didn't budge. "C'mon, Craig; say something." Silence. "For fuck's sake, Craig, you can't just avoid talking about it forever!"

Craig would have begged to differ. He could've—and would've—gone on living just fine without ever acknowledging the senseless feelings of deep infatuation that he might've once felt for Kyle in the past, but unfortunately you need oxygen to breath, and it doesn't take long to get pretty stuffy inside of a locked car; otherwise he wouldn't be stuck sitting on his bed, watching as Kyle stared down at him as if he were some sort of alien.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Yes there—_ugh_, you know what?" Kyle threw his hands up in defeat and stalked the small distance to the other side of the room. Craig waited patiently for Kyle to finish whatever he was going to say but it never came. Instead, he saw Kyle's shoulders drop as he seemed to take an interest in the corkboard above his desk. The both of them sat in silence like that for some time, with Craig beginning to panic at not knowing just what the hell Kyle was so engrossed in, until Kyle let out a long sigh. "It's just kind of hard to believe, you know?"

"Hard to believe what."

"That you actually used to _like me,_" Kyle said like it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. He turned around and leaned back against the desk, setting his sights on Craig with a more calm and collected sort of air around him. "How come you never said anything back then?"

"I tried to a few times." Craig shrugged. He'd just never gone through with it. Between not being able to work up the confidence and having to deal with Stan always managing to butt in and ruin the moment, he never got very far. "Guess I just have bad timing."

"God, I just—" Kyle shook his head in disbelief. He was clearly having trouble grasping the situation. "This is _insane_."

Craig blinked. "It really isn't that much of a big deal."

Kyle looked at him as if he'd just grown another head. "How could you possibly say that? Of course it's a big deal!" he practically shouted, completely defeating the purpose of keeping the conversation confined to Craig's bedroom in case Clyde came back home. "Imagine learning that the last guy you'd ever expect used to be in love with you!"

"I wasn't—"

"That explains why you were always so weird around me, though. One minute being nice; the next, a total asshole," Kyle said thoughtfully, cutting him off. "Actually, that even explains why you've been such a dick to me since I came back to South Park. You must still have feelings for me or something."

"I don't have feelings for you," Craig snapped. He was tired of having everything he said go in one ear and out the other. If Kyle wasn't going to actually listen to what he had to say, then what was the point in speaking? "And let's get one thing straight, Broflovski: I've never, _ever,_ been in love with you; not then, not now, and not ever. Do the world a favor and get the fuck over yourself already."

Kyle perked a brow. "Coming from a guy who's been holding onto my birthday present for over twelve years, that's kind of hard to believe."

Craig groaned. "For the last time, I forgot I even _had_ it."

"You know," Kyle started with a wry chuckle, ignoring him, "after I found it while you were at work, I had this—this _feeling_, like... okay, maybe there _was_ this crazy possibility that you might've liked me? I dunno. I didn't give it too much thought because it was weird." He paused, looking off to the side for a moment as he chewed his bottom lip in thought. "To tell you the truth, it kind of grossed me out at first to think that you of all people might've actually had a crush on me or something."

"Wow. Thanks."

"But it's not really that bad, I guess," Kyle continued. "I mean, yeah, you weren't exactly the _nicest_ guy around, but you... um." He cleared his throat. Craig waited. "Well, you know."

"Know what."

"So you really don't think of me like that anymore?"

Craig scowled. Was it really that hard to come up with a single nice thing about him? "Not anymore, no."

"Well..." Kyle trailed off, before asking with a sort of gentle curiosity one might have when tiptoeing around a subject that might still be a bit too sore to touch on. "What _do_ you think of me now?"

Craig looked up at him. His initial reaction was to simply say that he didn't, because why would he waste his time letting Kyle take up precious space in his thoughts? But that would have been a lie since that was exactly what Kyle had managed to do since unexpectedly showing up at the theatre about a week ago.

Still, even if most of the thoughts he entertained about the other man _were_ usually about how irritating he was and not about how enjoyable Kyle's company could be when he actually shut the hell up for five minutes, it wasn't as if Craig could just tell him that. Kyle had a knack for hearing what he wanted to hear sometimes, and right now was one of them; and if Kyle could get the idea that Craig had been _in love_ with him all that time ago—which, for the record, _was not the case_—from a stupid story about a forgotten-about birthday gift, Craig could only imagine what Kyle would think if he actually told him the truth.

Then again, it wasn't like he had to tell him the _whole_ truth.

"I think you're obnoxious."

Kyle scoffed. "Jeez, you didn't have to be so dramatic," he said, letting a relieved grin overtake his features. Craig could feel the tension in the air slowly begin to dissipate after such a pregnant pause, but he refused to allow himself to relax. "For what it's worth, the feeling's mutual."

"Hmm."

"But it's still so hard to believe though. I mean, here I am now, practically _living_ with you and faking a relationship in order to fool my parents into thinking that you're actually Stan," Kyle said flippantly. Then he froze. His eyes widened as if he'd just remembered that he forgot to turn the oven off before leaving for work. "Oh my god," he mumbled into cupped hands. "What if Stan knew about this?"

Craig was confused. "I thought he already knew you were staying with me."

"No, not _that._" Kyle dismissed him with a wave. "I mean about how you used to _like_ me. I bet he wouldn't have been so gung-ho about this ridiculous _'seeing other people'_ bullshit if he knew that I was staying with someone who used to practically be in love with me."

_"I wasn't in love with you."_

"I know, I know! Calm down already, I get it. But it'd be better if Stan thought you were because then he'd—"

"Be jealous?" Craig offered boredly. "You want to make him jealous?"

"It's not that I want to make him _jealous,_ necessarily," Kyle explained cautiously. He glanced back at the corkboard for a second before continuing, "I just want him to realize that, you know, if he really wants to do this, then fine. But don't expect me to just sit here and do nothing."

Craig didn't like the glint in Kyle's eye one bit. "I don't know, Broflovski. I'm not—"

"Like, I know he said _we_ should see other people—as in the both of us, not just him—but he probably thinks I wouldn't actually go through with it; especially not with you since, well. You're _you_," Kyle rambled on. "Plus you're not really my type, personality-wise; Stan knows personality is a huge deal to me. But maybe it'd at least make him _think,_ you know?"

"Hold on—"

"I mean, he's not the only one with options! I could have—" He stopped for a moment, brows knitting together, and licked his lips. "Look, I get hit on _a lot,_ alright? Do you have any idea how many guys have tried to talk to me over the past two years just waiting in line at Starbucks alone? Or on the subway?"

"I said—"

Honestly, he's lucky I'm not in New York right now because then two could _really_ play this stupid game, but whatever. I think we could still make it work. Like I said, you're not exactly my type, but—"

"Would you just shut the fuck up for a minute?" Craig shouted abruptly, stopping Kyle's long-winded tirade in its tracks. He didn't want to raise his voice but if Kyle wasn't going to let him get a word in edgewise, then oh well. "I'm not playing along with this stupid idea of yours, so just forget about it."

Kyle frowned. "What? No, Craig—"

"No, _Kyle,_" Craig said harshly. The way that name rolled off his tongue felt so strange that he almost shivered. He'd have to be mindful not to slip up in the future. "What part of what I said did you not understand? Your idea is dumb. You're being ridiculous. I'm not playing along. Get over it."

Kyle folded his arms over his chest and shot Craig a doubtful look. "I think you're forgetting our deal."

"I think _you're_ forgetting that I'm letting you stay here for free," Craig reminded him. "And I only agreed to help so that your mom wouldn't catch on to how fucking sad you are; _not_ to be your dancing monkey. Maybe you should've taken that five grand and spent it on couples counseling to fix your fucked up relationship instead of trying to use me to make your dumbass fiancé jealous."

"Our relationship is fine!" Kyle bristled.

"And I didn't drop out of art school," Craig quipped dryly. There was so much more that he wanted to say but he held his tongue. Now was not the time. "Now you listen to me, Broflovski," he warned, "if I find out you've mentioned a _single word_ about any of this to Marsh while you're living in this apartment, then I'm telling your mother the truth about everything. I don't care if you don't pay me—my feelings aren't a fucking game. Got it?"

Kyle glared at him. Craig knew what he was doing—challenging him, standing his ground and trying to show that he wasn't a pushover—but Craig wasn't a pushover either, and he had no problem holding his own in a childish staring contest. Staring was what he did, and he did it well. Kyle must've realized this because it didn't take long for him to give up with a forced sigh and a brusque, "Whatever." He snatched his phone from the bedside table and stormed out of the room.

Craig didn't chase after him this time. If Kyle seriously wanted to act like a petulant little brat, then fine by him; it only made it easier on him in the long run. Though all jokes aside, there really wasn't a reason for Craig to go after him. He understood that Kyle was simply upset—regardless of how idiotic he was acting out of desperation—and that it was probably a better idea to just let him go stew in his own anger for a bit rather than sit there and try to talk to him. Kyle was usually a pretty reasonable guy, after all; he'd realize how crazy he sounded and would bounce back in no time.

Craig let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding and dropped his head in his hands. Who was he kidding? He and Kyle might not've been close, but he knew Kyle, and there was no way in hell that Kyle was going to let this go so easily; especially not now, after finding out the truth about his past feelings. If anything, things were only about to get much, much worse.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Sorry to those who got an update about this chapter a few days ago; I'd accidentally posted it when it wasn't finished, so that was totally my fault. Anyway, heads up, because this chapter is explicit. Lord have mercy have I sinned. Don't look at me.

* * *

Craig sighed as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He wiped a streak across the bathroom mirror and leaned in to examine his features, fussing with a few blemishes for a bit before ultimately deciding against it. Nothing major; a pimple here and a dark spot there, hardly anything noticeable outside of the harsh fluorescent bathroom lighting. The dark bags under his eyes, however, were a different story.

_I look like shit._

The past few days had been mentally exhausting to say the least, having to deal with Kyle constantly vacillating between hot and cold, and he had no doubts that today would ultimately be yet another in what was shaping up to be a week-long succession of them.

He glared at his reflection. Outside the bathroom, the apartment was quiet—almost _too_ quiet. Craig knew better than to let his guard down for more than a minute.

There were two things that Craig had learned since his and Kyle's little spat almost a week ago: (1) that Kyle could be a lot more conniving than Craig had initially given him credit for, and (2) that trying to keep up with him without seeming like a paranoid fool was near _impossible_.

Okay, so Craig didn't have any actual hard evidence to support his theory of Kyle being a master manipulator, but that didn't mean that Kyle wasn't one.

The signs were all there. For example, after spending a few hours wandering the streets to cool down, Kyle had managed to return back to the apartment with an even worse attitude than he'd initially left with. Not that he was exceptionally confrontational all of a sudden or anything like that; actually, it would've been a huge relief if that were the case, but it wasn't.

See, most people don't realize it, but there are two general "modes" when it comes to Kyle's anger: the most common being pure, unbridled rage that shows up through his fiery outbursts, and the other being a sort of seething, calculated contempt that takes root in passive-aggressive behaviors, oftentimes carefully crafted and executed. So while those short-lived, hot-headed tantrums that sometimes bordered on manic were annoying, Craig could at least deal with those no problem, and sometimes even get a twisted sort of kick out of them. But passive-aggressive Kyle? That was dangerous uncharted territory, best to be avoided at all costs if anyone could help it. Unfortunately, Craig could not.

The you'll-miss-if-you-blink shoulder shrugs; the discarded clothes left on the bedroom floor right next to the laundry basket; how Kyle always put the milk carton on the door of the fridge despite knowing good and well that it definitely did not go there because it'd spoil quicker; the extra-long showers that Kyle seemed to feel were absolutely necessary to take right around the time that Craig had to start getting ready for work; Kyle's sudden buddy-buddy relationship with Clyde; the fact that it'd take Kyle nearly 40 minutes to reply back to a simple yes or no question via text message; how Kyle basically took over the desk in Craig's bedroom for himself without even asking yet still chose to hammer away as loud as humanly possible on his laptop in bed until three in the goddamn morning; the list went on and on. There were so many ridiculous, minuscule things that Kyle did that Craig could have sworn served no other purpose than to drive him up a wall, and _it was working_.

The worst part was that there was no real way of confronting Kyle. It wasn't like Craig could just call him out on his shit when Kyle would just compliantly play along, feeding him some stock apology about how he'd made a "mistake" and that he was "sorry," like when all of Craig's set-to-record TV series were suddenly replaced with the most mundane, mind-numbing episodes of shows like _60 Minutes_ and _Locked Up_. No, because you know what Kyle did when Craig tore the remote out of his hand when he finally decided he'd had enough of Kyle's ass being parked firmly on the living room couch for two days straight?

He apologized.

No bitching, no complaining—just a simple "I'm sorry," and an "I didn't realize I was messing up your recordings," followed up with the most victimized-sounding line of "I'll just catch the new episode when it airs online," before calmly leaving the room without so much as a glance back at Craig, who was glued to the spot and practically fuming, because _seriously,_ that was it? It wasn't like Craig was _looking_ for a fight or anything, but for fuck's sake, he was expecting _something!_

Ugh—it was starting to seem as if Craig _wanted_ to argue with him. Great.

And the phone calls—don't even get Craig _started_ on the fucking phone calls.

Despite the fact that trying to get ahold of Stan just days before was about as easy as trying to make alien contact, Kyle had somehow miraculously gotten into this one-call-a-day routine where he'd talk with Captain Dumbass. Loudly. On speaker. In the _same room_. It didn't take an award winning psychologist to figure out that Kyle was doing it just to get under his skin, especially with how Kyle made it a point to get up and move to whatever room Craig happened to be in at the time. Kyle might've thought he was being smooth, but he was far from it—not when Craig could practically feel Kyle watching every move he made with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Why Kyle even went out of his way to flaunt his stupid conversations with Stan in his face was beyond him—it wasn't like Craig gave a shit about what Kyle did. In fact, he couldn't give any _less_ of a shit; _that's_ how much he didn't care. If there was an award for giving the least amount of fucks, Craig would have come in first, second, and third place. He was the current reigning champion of not caring.

Okay, maybe he did care.

But only a little bit.

Because as obnoxious as those phone calls were, Craig couldn't help but feel sort of bad after what happened the other day when Kyle had settled himself in at the kitchen counter with his phone on speaker, waiting for Stan to pick up; only for a gruff, unfamiliar voice to answer instead.

Oh, the look on Kyle's face was _priceless_—almost as wonderful as watching him fumble to turn the phone's volume down in an attempt to save face while simultaneously trying to interrogate whoever was on the other end before they abruptly hung up. Craig felt as if justice had been served that afternoon.

It was great: Craig had practically forgotten that Kyle was even staying there since he kept himself holed up in the bedroom without a single peep for most of that evening. It'd been awhile since Craig had had some peace and quiet in that goddamn apartment, so the sweet, sweet sound of silence was much appreciated.

After so long, though, the whole situation had started to feel all too familiar; almost like a repeat of the night that they stood at the edge of Stark's Pond and listened to Stan's oddly-passive voicemail, complete with a defeated Kyle and Charlie the unofficial therapy dog nudging his nose into Kyle's side when he finally emerged from the bedroom hours later only to immigrate to the living room couch instead, where he spent the next couple of hours staring at a blank television screen while hugging his knees to his chest. He looked like absolute shit, and it was hard for Craig not to feel the least bit guilty.

In the end, Craig's small victory was short lived because while he might've been a sadistic asshole who enjoyed witnessing Kyle's plan backfire a little too much, he wasn't _heartless_. So it wasn't long before he'd had more than enough of Kyle's sulking and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

"Can I sit here."

Kyle shrugged. "Do what you want. It's your couch."

Craig had refrained from commenting on Kyle's bitter choice of words and sat down on the loveseat next to him, balancing the warm mug of hazelnut coffee he'd been holding on his knee. He wanted to wait for Kyle to look over and acknowledge his existence before giving it to him, but after nearly a minute of being ignored it was clear that wasn't going to happen before the coffee got cold. "Here."

"Leave me alone."

"Kyle."

Kyle huffed and glanced over at him for the first time in what felt like months. His eyes were bloodshot. "What's that?"

"Coffee."

"I thought you didn't like coffee?"

"It's not for me."

"But why do you…?" Kyle sighed. He took the coffee. "Nevermind. Thanks."

"Yeah."

Craig had watched as Kyle inspected it carefully before blowing over it and chancing a small sip. Was it alright for him to leave now? He hadn't of thought things through further than this. He was starting to regret thinking that trying to console an upset Kyle with warm coffee was ever a good idea.

"We're fine, you know."

"Okay."

"We _are._"

"Did you figure out who it was?"

Kyle didn't answer. Craig figured that must've been a no. He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flipped the television on to give Kyle something to actually stare at rather than a black screen, then handed it to him. When he refused to take it, Craig dropped it on the couch between them before whipping out his phone instead.

He kept side-eyeing Kyle through his peripheral vision as he scrolled through his Facebook news feed. It was hard to focus; even with the TV on it was too quiet, and the absence of Kyle's usually annoying commentary wasn't helping, either. It was turning out that a little bit of silence from Kyle went a long way, and it actually got stale pretty quick.

The sound of a woman moaning snapped Craig's attention to the television before he could come up with an idea for smalltalk to ease the tension in the room. Some sort of made-for-TV romance drama was on, currently in the middle of PG-13 sex scene. Great. As if things weren't already awkward enough.

"I'm gonna get a drink."

"You make some really good coffee for someone who doesn't like it."

Halfway to the kitchen, Craig whipped around to find Kyle's tired green eyes watching him. "Uh, thanks."

"Did Tweek teach you?"

"Not much to really teach, but yeah. I used to make him coffee to settle him down sometimes after a bad dream, and he's, uh. Very particular about the way he likes his coffee."

Kyle hmphed. "Must be nice."

"Nice?"

"Having someone there to comfort him whenever he needed," he said. "Tweek's lucky to have you."

Craig would've had to disagree. If anything, _he_ was the lucky one, but he didn't want to get into a lengthy discussion over his and Tweek's doomed-from-the-start high school relationship that Kyle was more than likely dying to hear the gritty details of. He grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the fridge.

"Is there any left?"

"Coffee?" Craig asked. Kyle nodded. "You want more?"

"No, my cup's still full. You should really have some, though."

"I don't—"

"I _know,_ but just try it," Kyle said, then took a lengthy sip. He licked some foam from his lips. "It's good. I promise."

Craig caved and poured himself a cup.

"God, is there anything even _semi_-decent on right now?" Kyle complained as he flipped through the channels. Craig had rejoined him back on the couch with his cup of coffee. Even though it smelled delicious he was pretty sure he was just going to end up dumping it down the kitchen drain in an hour. "Nothing but stupid game shows. What gives? It's prime time, isn't it?"

Craig remembered Kyle sounding sort of interested when Clyde had mentioned documentaries back at Tweak Bros that one afternoon. "I recorded this documentary on the Jonestown massacre if you wanna watch that. It's supposed to be really good."

"Dude, that sounds awesome."

"Alright, cool—"

"Hey!"

"Shit." He'd completely forgotten about his own coffee until he ended up spilling some in Kyle's lap while reaching over to grab the remote. "Are you okay? Are you burned?"

"No, I'm fine. It wasn't that hot anymore," Kyle said, then chuckled. "I guess this is payback for spilling gravy on you."

Craig almost cracked a smile. Almost. "You did sort of have it coming," he said. He grabbed a few tissues from the coffee table and began to dab at the splotches on Kyle's jeans. "Here, let me just—"

Kyle jumped away as if he'd been electrocuted. "Whoa, don't touch me!"

"Huh?"

"I don't like you like that."

"Like me like—what the hell are you talking about, Broflovski?" Craig asked. He let Kyle snatch the tissues from his hand and watched in befuddlement as he scooted towards the other end of the couch.

"I know you probably think that my defenses are down and that now's a good time to get close to me because of that little… _mishap_ earlier," Kyle explained, "but that doesn't mean you can just swoop in and try to take advantage of the situation, alright?"

Craig blinked. "You don't seriously think I was just coming onto you, do you?"

"Knowing what I know now about your past feelings towards me, and seeing how you've been sort of watching me this past week, I'm not too sure," Kyle said, as if he weren't the one who'd practically begged him to forge a fake relationship less than a week ago in order to spite Stan. "Either way, I'm sorry, but I just don't like you like that."

And just like that, things were back to normal—or, at least as normal as things _could_ be after Kyle had gotten up and walked out of the apartment without another word, leaving Craig alone in the living room to sit and wonder just what the hell had happened, because what was _that_ all about? If anything, Kyle was the one who'd been watching_ him!_

Whatever—it didn't matter.

Things were a little weird for a while after that, but it wasn't necessarily all bad. Sure, Craig would have preferred to have gone without the sudden spike in unresolved sexual tension between them, and Kyle probably could have acted less like he'd somehow magically contract AIDS just from meeting each other's eyes, but once the awkwardness had died down and Kyle seemed to be through with avoiding Craig, things were… different.

Craig couldn't explain how; they just _were_. Like how Kyle would stay up late "working," tapping away on his laptop as if his life depended on it; the constant clicking of the keys used to be enough to drive Craig mad, but now it really didn't bother him much. Even when he turned the floor fan up to the highest level to drown out the sound, not once did Kyle complain about it being too cold—which was weird, since Kyle had previously made it his life's goal to complain about literally _everything._ Hell, even after a night or two of considering that maybe—just _maybe—_Kyle wasn't intentionally trying to be a pain in the ass for once in his life, Craig didn't feel as compelled to grind his teeth whenever he heard Kyle mumbling under his breath. Craig didn't understand a word of the jumbled legal jargon that came out of his mouth, but it was oddly soothing in a strange sort of way, and so what if it might've helped to lull him to sleep on more than one occasion?

Except Craig wasn't stupid. In all actuality he knew _exactly_ what was happening, and the sooner Kyle got out of his apartment, the better.

The sound of the front door slamming open brought Craig back to reality, staring himself down in the bathroom mirror. The steam had all but completely vanished and his skin was starting to feel uncomfortably dry. He frowned. How long had he been standing there for?

"Why are you lying to me?" Kyle's disembodied voice could be heard loud and clear throughout the apartment. It was jarring, like nails on a chalkboard, and Craig cringed when he heard his bedroom door swing open forcefully and _thwack _against the wall. "Do you really think I'm that dumb? I heard them!"

It didn't take a world-class detective to figure out who Kyle was currently ripping into. It'd been a few days since everything had happened, and Craig knew that the shitstorm would have to come sooner or later. He only wished that Kyle could maybe not be so damned loud about it.

"Friend? What friend? Stan, you don't _have _any friends!"

Craig pounded the wall. "Turn it down out there. I have a headache."

"You know our building has security cameras, right?"

"Hey, Broflovski—"

"What, you think I seriously won't call and ask?" There was no use. Kyle was practically in his own little world, too busy slamming doors and shouting at the top of his lungs to notice anything else around him.

Craig closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He needed aspirin, stat.

"Stan? Wait, Stan, no. Don't hang up—!"

Silence.

The unmistakable sound of a cell phone being thrown against a wall.

A frustrated sigh.

Nothing.

The gods must've been smiling down on him today.

Craig silently thanked whatever deity that'd decided to show him mercy as he shuffled around the cabinet in search of something to take the edge off. Unfortunately though, that's about where his luck seemed to end, only coming across some Orajel and an empty bottle of Tylenol.

The bathroom door handle jostled violently.

"Are you in there?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"I wanna take a shower."

"Well I'm in here right now, so." Craig splashed some cold water on his face and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he still had some painkillers leftover from when he got his wisdom teeth removed not too long ago. If he remembered correctly, he'd hidden them somewhere behind the—

"What's taking you so long?"

"Would you go the fuck away, Broflovski."

"You're taking forever," Kyle complained, jostling the door handle again. Craig grit his teeth. "Hurry up."

"If you don't quit—"

"What are you even doing in there?"

"_For fuck's sake."_ Craig tore open the door, ready to lay into Kyle and give him a piece of his mind, but lost wind the moment his eyes fell on milky, bare skin. There Kyle stood, wearing nothing but his boxers with his arms folded across his chest. He had a towel slung over his shoulder.

"Finally," Kyle muttered and pushed past him, not even batting an eye at Craig's own lack of clothes. It took Craig a few seconds to register the fact that he'd basically just been kicked out of his own bathroom until he heard the door click shut behind him. With renewed anger, he stalked off to his bedroom.

What was the deal with Kyle's attitude, Craig wondered, and what made him think that it was okay to act like such a bitch? Just because Stan didn't feel like putting up with Kyle's bullshit didn't mean that he could take it out on _him_.

Craig scoffed and pulled on some underwear before falling back onto his bed. Kyle wasn't even being passive-aggressive anymore; now he was just being a straight-up obnoxious pest. Craig had half a mind to go break down the bathroom door and yank him out of the shower.

He shifted uncomfortably and immediately discarded that thought.

Nothing but a pest, he reminded himself. An infuriating, good for nothing, bothersome…

_Attractive._

Craig needed to punch something.

He couldn't shake the mental image of Kyle standing shirtless in the doorway. Why not? And why did he have to think about it _now,_ of all times? It wasn't like he'd never seen him shirtless before; and even if he hadn't, so what? It's not like getting an eyeful of Kyle's bare chest was some sort of religious, life-changing experience. Craig had seen it all plenty of times before; it was nothing special.

But then why was his heart beating so fast?

Craig covered his face and sighed. This was _exactly_ what he was afraid of happening. It was only a matter of time before Kyle would somehow manage to worm his way under his skin, and Craig knew right from the start that fighting it would be pointless; it was inevitable, and now he was paying the price for not telling Kyle to fuck off when he still had the chance. California had better be fucking worth it.

Knowing the battle had already been lost, Craig went ahead and humored himself, letting his thoughts wander to the other man. He palmed himself hesitantly through his underwear as he listened to the hiss of the shower from across the hall, imagining the water beating against Kyle's shoulders and running down his back. A warm, fuzzy feeling settled into Craig's gut as he wondered whether or not Kyle might've been touching himself as well. Probably not, but it was still nice to think about.

With a determined huff, Craig bit the bullet and pushed his underwear down his thighs. He could lament the loss of his dignity and common sense later; for now he was decidedly through with teasing himself. It wasn't often that he had his bedroom completely to himself these days, and he figured he'd might as well take advantage of it while it lasted.

His eyes slipped shut as he slowly began to pump himself. At first he tried to think about anyone other than Kyle—celebrities, pornstars, ex-lovers—but it was no use. No matter what, Craig's mind kept snapping right back to Kyle, so he eventually stopped trying to fight it.

He squeezed himself tighter as he imagined Kyle down on his knees, looking up at him through hooded eyes and begging for a taste of his cock. Kyle definitely had the mouth for it. His lips always seemed so soft and full, and even when he was busy complaining Craig couldn't help but notice how he'd always dart his tongue out to wet them.

Craig bit his lip and groaned. He bet Kyle didn't even have a gag reflex.

Too far gone to notice, Craig didn't even realize that the shower hadn't been running for quite some time, and it was too late for him to start now. Before he knew what was happening, his bedroom door flung open and Kyle came flying in like a bat out of hell.

Craig jumped up reflexively. "What the hell, Broflovski!" he snapped, hurrying to tuck himself away. His raging erection did not make things any easier. "Fucking—don't you know how to knock!" But Kyle didn't seem to be paying him any attention. "Hey! Broflovski!"

"I forgot to grab clothes," was Kyle's scant response as he made a beeline for the dresser. His towel hung dangerously low around his hips. "Relax, I'm not looking at you."

"That doesn't make it okay for you to just barge in without knocking!"

"Oh calm down. Nobody cares about you touching yourself."

"_I wasn't—"_

Kyle ceased digging through his designated drawer and shot Craig a look. "I literally just walked in on you with your dick in your hand, Craig. I'm not stupid."

Craig prickled as Kyle turned his back towards him once more.

"Hey," he called out when he noticed that Kyle was going through one of his drawers now; the one filled with old band t-shirts and pajama pants. "Hey, what are you doing."

"I'm borrowing something to lounge around in."

"I thought I told you not to go through my shit," he said. Kyle didn't answer. "Hey, are you even listening to me? I said stop." Still nothing. Fed up with the blatant disrespect, Craig stomped across the room and grabbed Kyle by the arm, forcing him to turn around.

"I know you can hear me, Broflovski!"

Kyle grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him down into a lip-crushing kiss.

To say that Craig was unprepared would have been an understatement. One second he was trying to get Kyle away from his dresser; the next he was locked in a searing, impromptu kiss with the last person he'd ever expect. What exactly had brought this on, Craig had no idea; all he knew was that Kyle's hands felt like fire against his skin and that he wanted more.

Kyle suddenly pulled away.

"Wha…" Craig stammered, dazed and confused. Kyle's lips were moving but he couldn't hear anything except for the heavy drum of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. They were too close. Nearly chest to chest, Craig could feel the heat rolling off Kyle's body in waves, and he could almost make out each individual freckle that was painted across the bridge of Kyle's nose in heavy concentration.

Craig's dick gave a violent twitch between them, and Kyle scowled and slapped him across the face.

"What the fuck!"

"Serves you right, you fucking perv."

Craig gawked. "How am I the perv? You're the one who kissed me!" he shouted, holding his stinging cheek.

"I'm not the one rubbing their dick all over some poor unsuspecting individual!" Kyle shouted right back. Craig couldn't believe what he was hearing. "And don't say that's not what you were doing because I felt it!"

"It's not!"

"Bullshit!"

Without thinking, Craig shoved Kyle up against his bedroom door, which slammed shut under the pressure of their collective weight. He held Kyle's wrists up above his head.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem today, Kyle?"

Kyle scoffed and twisted half-heartedly in his grip. "Are we finally on a first name basis now?"

"I'm not playing around with you."

"Who said I was playing around?"

"I mean it," Craig warned. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Kyle's. "Don't go taking whatever shitty problems you have with your boyfriend out on me. I have enough of my own."

Yeah. I can tell," Kyle said. For a moment Craig wasn't sure what he was alluding to, until he felt Kyle's hips roll into his own. The rough cotton of Kyle's towel against his barely clothed erection made him suck in a shaky breath. "Doesn't seem like it's that big of one, though."

"Fuck you, Kyle."

Kyle smirked. "You don't have the balls."

Craig didn't get the chance to prove him wrong before Kyle suddenly lurched forward and crashed their lips together in another surprise kiss. This one was considerably different from the last; it was harder, faster, and it had a heightened sense of urgency to it. Even though it had still caught him off guard, Craig was definitely a lot more prepared this time around, and had no problems returning Kyle's sloppy, vicious kiss with just as much, if not more, fervor.

Much to Craig's surprise, Kyle's lips weren't nearly as soft as he'd always imagined they'd be. They were actually pretty rough and cracked; probably from Kyle's habit of picking at them, he figured, but that didn't make things any less enjoyable. It was hardly the first thing on his mind when he was trying to avoid clashing teeth anymore than they already had as they battled for dominance.

Craig hissed when Kyle bit down on his bottom lip. "You kiss like an overeager 13-year-old boy," Kyle taunted, then shook his hands. "Let me go."

"No."

"Fine. I didn't want to touch you anyway."

Craig dropped his arms.

Letting go of Kyle's wrists had been a mistake, Craig realized, when seconds later he felt blunt nails dig into his shoulders. He winced and bucked his hips hard into Kyle's on reflex, pinning Kyle to the wall without an inch of distance to separate them. "You tricked me," he growled against the shell of Kyle's ear. He could feel the deep crescent marks already beginning to welt up. They stung, but at the same time it was a pleasurable burn.

"Your fault for thinking that a disgusting mutt like yourself actually deserved a treat," Kyle said, feigning annoyance. He turned his head so that Craig caught his cheek when he went in for another kiss. Craig settled for assaulting his neck instead.

"God, you're like a rabid animal; can't even keep it in your pants."

"You can drop the innocent act," Craig said, wedging one of his knees between Kyle's legs. He couldn't quite make out the outline of Kyle's own hardness with the towel still in the way, but he could still feel it against his thigh. He licked at Kyle's collarbone. "I know you want it."

"What's there to want? I can barely feel anything."

Craig flipped Kyle around and shoved his face against the door. "You're gonna feel it," he assured him, ripping away Kyle's towel and pushing down his own constricting underwear with the hand that wasn't holding Kyle in place by damp red curls. Craig's cock sprang free with a lively jump, and he leaned into Kyle's back as he rutted up against Kyle's bare ass.

"Spread your legs."

"Make me," Kyle said. Craig didn't need to be told twice. He palmed Kyle's cheeks apart and shoved two fingers into him without warning. "Ah, fuck!"

"Just doing what you told me to."

"A head's up would've been nice," Kyle spat, but still continued to rock his hips back all the same. "Or lube, but I guess you're too cheap for even that."

"You don't deserve lube."

"To be honest, I probably won't _need_ any with how much your dick's been leaking. Jesus fuck, Craig. Do you think you can control yourself? I'm not a fucking slip and slide."

Craig could only grunt in response. It was like no matter what, Kyle _always_ had to have the last word, and it was absolutely infuriating.

He continued to work his fingers in and out of Kyle's tight hole as he mouthed at the nape of Kyle's neck. Kyle's eyes were closed, his hands balled into fists against the door while breathy moans and soft hums fell steadily from his open lips. The only time Craig stopped was to reach for the lotion on the dresser when adding a third finger didn't go as smoothly as the first two.

"I hope you're ready, because I'm not gonna hold back. It's been awhile since I've fucked anyone," Craig said as he slicked himself up. That didn't sound nearly as cool and aloof as it had in his head. He pressed a few uncharacteristically chaste kisses to the curve of Kyle's spine on instinct.

Kyle just laughed. "Why does that not surprise me?" he said, and any fleeting second guesses that Craig might've had about actually going easy on him were shortly abandoned as he sheathed himself in Kyle in one swift go.

Craig fucked him fast and hard right from the start. Even after having already spent ample time stretching him beforehand, Kyle was still tighter than Craig had anticipated, and Craig had to fight to keep from seeming too eager. He gnawed the inside of his cheek as he tried not to think about the warmth of Kyle's ass surrounding him. There was no way he'd let himself lose control before Kyle; he'd never live it down.

It wasn't long before Kyle traded in his haughty attitude for moaning wantonly like a cheap street hooker, face red and cheek pressed flush against the door. Now it was Craig's turn to laugh at how far the mighty had fallen. He leaned in and sank his teeth into the muscle between Kyle's shoulder and his neck, breaking skin and earning a pained hiss before moving up and burying his nose in Kyle's wet hair. "You're such a fucking slut," he growled.

"Those are loaded words for a guy who used to whore himself out to his classmates."

"Letting some other guy fuck you right after hanging up with your boyfriend," Craig continued, ignoring Kyle's snide response. He snaked a hand around to grab Kyle's dick for emphasis, seized the wrist of Kyle's hand that was furiously pumping himself and pulled it away, replacing it with his own. "What's the problem? He's not good enough for you now?"

"You're hardly anything special," Kyle told him. "Now would you please shut the fuck up already? I'm trying to enjoy this."

Craig eased the critical strike to his ego by twisting Kyle's arm behind his back as he pounded him even harder into the cheap wooden door. With every sharp thrust it rattled in its frame, and in the midst of it all, Charlie was on the other side having an absolute conniption fit, howling in time with Kyle's whiney moans.

Craig's knuckles scraped along the door as Kyle rutted into his hand. "Hey," he said when he noticed the way Kyle's back arched inward all of a sudden. His breathing was more ragged than usual. "Hey, no—"

"_Oh fuck,"_ Kyle moaned.

"No, don't. Not here," Craig said. But it was too late, he realized, when he felt Kyle begin to clench up around him. If Kyle's stuttering hips weren't already enough to confirm his fears, the wet warmth that was quickly soaking its way into his palm was. He pulled out while Kyle was still coming and grimaced as he sank to the ground without support.

"Look what you did," he said, and grabbed a fistful of Kyle's hair with his clean hand. He shoved Kyle's face towards the mess of white on the untreated door. "You better clean this up before it stains."

"Gross, get off of me!"

"It's your fucking jizz. You did that."

"Are you done yet? Can I _go?"_ Kyle asked indignantly as he resisted having his face dragged through his own cum.

Craig snatched Kyle up from under his arms and manhandled him over to the bed. Even after all that, Kyle _still_ had the nerve to act like a huffy little bitch? Fine, Craig thought as he jerked Kyle's hips up and towards the edge of the bed. He forced Kyle's face down into the mattress. If Kyle wanted to act like a bitch, then he would treat him like one.

Kyle squealed in surprise when Craig suddenly slammed back into him, picking up right from where they'd left off. He felt tighter this time around, and Craig couldn't help but sigh as Kyle squeezed around him. When Kyle let out some of his own lustful whimpers, Craig only shoved his face further into the blankets to muffle them.

Craig sneered as he watched Kyle dig his fingers into the sheets, clearly enjoying being fucked like this. Meanwhile, Craig was starting to regret choosing such a terrible position; his legs felt like they were about to give out, his feet kept sliding against the floor, the angle was weird, his arms were straining from having to actively make sure that he wouldn't accidentally snap Kyle's neck under the pressure of his own weight, etc. etc. Lord knew this was probably the most exercise he'd ever gotten in his miserable life. He couldn't give up, though—he was trying to teach Kyle a fucking lesson here. Just a few more minutes of this shit should be enough, he figured, as he tried not to focus on the warm humidity from Kyle panting against his wrist.

When he came he did so with a low, guttural groan, emptying himself into Kyle without warning. After riding out his orgasm, he pulled out and rolled over onto his back with a heaving chest. "See what happens when you act like a bitch?" he asked once he'd managed to catch his breath. Then he chuckled, because he had done it; this time _he'd_ had the last word. He sat up on his arms and looked over when he felt the bed sink next to him.

"What, you've got nothing to say for once?" he teased, but his gloating was cut short when Kyle suddenly reached over and wiped his hand across his face. Craig opened his mouth on reflex to protest, only to get a taste of something warm and bitter. It had a strange texture.

"What the—_eugh!"_ Craig wretched when it dawned on him that he'd just swallowed his own cum. Kyle, who was back at the dresser and wiping the insides of his thighs clean with one of Craig's dirty shirts, snickered.

"Might wanna work on watching what you eat if it's that bad," he said, then gathered up an armful of clothes from Craig's old loungewear drawer and left without another word. Charlie wagged his tail and chased after him.

Craig rolled over and slammed his face into a pillow.

Something told him that he'd just played right into Kyle's hand.


	12. Chapter 12

As if Craig hadn't been humiliated enough, Kyle actually had the nerve to more or less order him to go and pick up his insulin refills. Craig had been too exhausted to argue, and honestly, some alone time to think and clear his head didn't sound so bad. Neither did the opportunity to get some aspirin.

Craig crossed his arms as he glanced around the back of the sterile, too-bright pharmacy, silently judging everyone else around him. The line was long, it was too cold, his head was throbbing, and the incessant buzzing from the overhead light wasn't exactly making his morning any more bearable, either. Behind the counter Thomas flitted about, helping customers and filling prescriptions as if he didn't have a debilitating disorder that made children gawk and shake their parents' pant legs in amazement.

"Seems like the new meds are working well," Craig mused when it was finally his turn. He tossed a bottle of Tylenol onto the counter alongside a pack of Red Vines. "Picking up for Broflovski. Ring me up for these, too."

"Sheesh. Rough night?"

"You don't look much better."

"Ah, it's the meds." Thomas sighed and ran a hand through his messy, dirty blond hair. Even though he wasn't as jittery or cursing up a storm like he usually was he still looked just as exhausted as ever. "They're great, but they make me tired as hell. It's like I can never get enough sleep. I slept for twelve hours last night and I'm still nodding off back here."

"Huh."

Thomas nodded to a small kiosk on the far end of the pharmacy waiting room. It was an advertisement for some new "as seen on TV" miracle hangover cure. There were brightly-colored packets hanging from the wire hooks. "You look like you could use some of those," he said.

"I don't drink."

"I know, I'm just saying that's what you look like. Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No."

Craig watched as Thomas scanned the items and tossed them into a bag before turning to a computer.

"Date of birth?"

"I dunno."

"Address?"

"I dunno."

Thomas looked at Craig. "You gotta work with me here, man."

"Can't you just, look him up by his last name or something?" Craig asked, growing annoyed. How the hell was he supposed to know Kyle's birthdate and address? He didn't remember any of that. "It's supposed to be insulin."

Thomas seized up then, shaking his head and shouting a few curse words under his breath before heaving a heavy sigh and turning back to the computer. "Kyle?" he asked after some time with furrowed brows. "He's back?"

"Yep."

"Oh. Uh, you _sure_ you don't wanna talk about it?"

Craig glared at him.

"Alright, alright. Just—give me a few minutes." Thomas waved him off towards the waiting area. Craig didn't budge. "Or stand here and wait. That's cool, too."

Craig stared, fixated on the brown splotch that stained the breast pocket of Thomas' white lab coat while he tapped away on his computer. Knowing Thomas' track record, it was probably a soup stain. How many times did Craig have to remind him to watch it with those microwavable soup bowls?

"—two weeks."

"What?"

"I said it won't be ready for another two weeks," Thomas said. "Humulin, right? Says here he picked it up earlier this month with his test strips."

"That doesn't make any sense," Craig said. "He just told me to come get it."

Thomas shrugged. "Yeah, well. I dunno what to tell you."

Craig pulled out his phone. "Hold on. Let me call him," he said, because he was not about to drive all the way back to the apartment only to be told to come right back here. Kyle's number went straight to voicemail. He tried again. "C'mon, answer your damn phone, Kyle."

"So do you still want these, or…?"

"You seriously can't just fill the prescription right now?" Craig groaned as the third call went straight to voicemail, too. Now what? Was he just supposed to go home empty-handed? Did Kyle even have enough to hold him over till the end of the month? "Or can you like, I dunno. Sell it to me? Is that even legal?"

"I can sell you some generic over-the-counter insulin but it's not the same kind that Kyle uses."

"There's different kinds?"

"You really don't know a thing about insulin, do you?" Thomas said. He looked at his watch. "Look, if you can wait for Kevin to get back from his lunch break, I'll tell him to give Kyle's insurance company a call and see if they can maybe bump up the refill date. It'll probably still take a few days, though."

"I don't _have_ a few days."

"What happened to the other one, anyway?"

Craig lifted a brow. "What other one?"

"Apparently when he picked up his insulin he got two vials," Thomas explained while pointing at the screen as if Craig could see it. "Did it break or something? Because there's no way he could've gone through both of them that fast."

"You said he picked them up earlier this month?" Craig asked. Thomas nodded. Kyle should've still been staying at his parents' house around that time; and if Craig remembered correctly, Kyle had mentioned something about not opening a new vial that afternoon when he had low blood sugar because he already had one at the apartment. Craig frowned when he realized what that meant.

Thomas cursed and fidgeted. "I'm not trying to be rude, but if you're not gonna get anything I'm gonna have to ask you to step aside. I'm the only tech working right now and between this and the drive-thru, I'm totally swamped," he said.

Craig fished a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over, but not before grabbing a Tide-to-Go pen from a nearby endcap and adding it to his purchases. He "forgot" it on the counter when he left.

* * *

The Broflovski residence and its pervasive overwhelming scent of warm, delicious home-cooked meals were quickly becoming the bane of Craig's existence.

"I swear, that boy—sometimes I think he'd lose his head if it weren't screwed on!" Sheila exclaimed as she lead Craig up the stairs towards Kyle's old bedroom. Sheila had only been too excited when Craig had shown up on her doorstep unannounced, dragging him inside and peppering his cheeks with kisses. "He's got a little fridge by his desk that he keeps his insulin in. Oh, but I'm sure you probably remember that."

"Yeah," Craig lied, trying to ignore the mouthwatering smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls that permeated the entire house. He couldn't wait to go home and wash his face.

Kyle's room was exactly as Craig remembered, although it did look considerably different during the day with the sunlight shining in through the thin curtains; the pinned-at-an-angle sports posters on his wall were actually distinguishable, and the green plaid bedspread was just as atrocious as it'd been the first time he'd laid eyes on it in near darkness.

Sheila started at the sound of something beeping from downstairs. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I've got to get the cinnamon rolls out of the oven before they burn," she said, then patted Craig's arm. "Come find me before you leave, alright? I've got some leftovers for you to take back to the hotel."

Craig looked around. Being alone in Kyle's room felt weird, as if he wasn't supposed to be there. He sort of felt like he was trespassing, although in a sense he technically _was;_ Craig highly doubted that Sheila would've let him in so willingly if it weren't under the guise of Stan Marsh, after all.

Catching his reflection in the dresser mirror, Craig wondered how people could possibly be so dumb. Not only that, but also how a room could be so badly decorated, even for a teenage boy.

The mini-fridge was easy to locate, doubling as a table for a haphazard stack of old textbooks and paperback novels, and Craig was relieved to find not just one, but two boxed vials of insulin. As he leaned down to take them, he was momentarily blinded by the light reflecting off of a framed photo of Kyle and Stan when they were younger that sat catty-cornered on the desk. Craig scowled at it and flipped it over, then took both insulin vials just in case.

Craig couldn't get out of there fast enough. Feeling like a thief, he avoided looking at the family portraits in the hallway that seemed as if they were watching his every move, and tip-toeing down the stairs didn't help to make him feel like any less of one.

He was two steps away from the front door when Sheila spotted him while rounding the corner. "And where do you think you're going, young man?" she asked as she waddled her way over. She was wearing a dirty white apron. "Didn't I tell you to come see me before you left? Goodness, Stanley, you're about as forgetful as Kyle!" she said with a laugh, then grabbed him by the wrist. "Come here, I want to show you something."

Craig didn't have a chance to argue before she was dragging him through the house. For a short, overweight, middle-aged woman, Kyle's mother sure had a grip on her. Craig idly wondered if it was she who Kyle had inherited his mean right hook from.

Sheila let him go once they entered the kitchen, leaving him to stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor while she went about rummaging through the fridge. The heavenly smell of cinnamon rolls was even stronger up close, and Craig's stomach growled at the sight of them cooling off on the stovetop.

"I want you to try one of these. Tell me how they came out," Sheila said, breaking Craig free from his hunger-induced trance. She was holding a platter filled with brown egg-shaped, deep-fried… things.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why aren't you eating? You loved them the last time I made them."

Sheila took one and handed it to him. Craig examined it with a frown. "Oh. Uh." He stared down at it warily. What the hell _was_ this thing? "I guess I did, didn't I," he mumbled, turning it over. He was going to kill Stan if he ever saw his miserable face again. With Sheila watching him expectantly, Craig held his breath and took a bite. He was surprised when he didn't feel the urge to gag as soon as the meat filling hit his tongue.

"So? How is it?"

Craig nodded. "It's good," he found himself saying without even thinking about it. He finished the last bite and licked his fingers clean. His rumbling stomach was momentarily quelled; it really hadn't tasted bad at all. "Uh, what did you say those were again?"

"Kibbeh. Here, eat as many as you'd like!" Sheila said, handing him two more. Craig did not hesitate to wolf them down. "I was worried that I might've made a mistake using lamb instead of beef this time. Can you tell the difference? I was thinking about making them for the reception dinner but I wanted to get a second opinion first."

"They're great," Craig reaffirmed with his mouth full. He didn't know what else to tell her.

"Let me put some in a container for you to take back to the hotel; I know they're your favorite," Sheila said, heading for the cupboards. Craig finished the last of his kibbeh as he watched her put about ten into a small green tupperware. She grabbed another larger tupperware from the fridge as well.

"Here you go, sweetie." She handed them both to Craig, who gave the larger tupperware a curious shake. "I made stuffed peppers last night and there was plenty leftover, so make sure you and Kyle eat them tonight for dinner."

Craig accepted them with a nod. He couldn't remember the last time that someone had actively ensured he was taken care of and well fed since moving out of his parents' house. Even before, while his home life had actually been pretty comfortable, it wasn't quite the same as the Broflovski household; there was just something about being in a cozy house with a happy close-knit family and the smell of tasty home cooking wafting through the halls at any given hour of the day that was so calming and reassuring that it actually made Craig a little uncomfortable. It just didn't feel right—not for _him,_ anyway. Perhaps he just wasn't cut out for this "family" nonsense; being alone suited him well. Still, even if only for just a split second, Craig felt like maybe he belonged there in that kitchen.

"Oh, before you leave, I've got one more thing I wanted to show you," Sheila said, then disappeared into the dining room. She returned with a thick, worn-out photo album under her arm moments later. Great, more photos. That was just what Craig needed.

"Kyle's father wants to give a speech at the reception, and I thought, 'How cute would it be to have a nice little slideshow with pictures of the two of you from when you were kids playing in the background?' So I've been going through our photo albums all morning trying to find some good ones," Sheila said, clearly pleased with herself for coming up with such a wonderful idea. "I want to know what you think about the ones I picked out so far."

Craig tensed as Sheila glued herself to his side. Being wedged between a counter and the mother of the man that he had ruthlessly fucked into his bedroom door less than an hour ago was not how Craig had envisioned spending his day off. Yet there he was, being forced to look on with feigned interest as Sheila flipped through the seemingly endless album pages, pointing at and gushing over the occasional childhood picture of her darling son and his fiancé. It wasn't long before Sheila forgot her original purpose and simply began enthusing over any picture that happened to catch her eye.

"And this one's from Kyle's bar mitzvah; and here's his 16th birthday party," she said, pointing to a picture of Kyle, Stan, and Token standing around a table and laughing. "I wish I knew what you three thought was so funny. You were laughing so hard!" she said. "Do you remember?"

"No."

"And these were from Kenny's wedding last year. Gerald and I couldn't make it since we were out of town but Wendy was nice enough to send us some pictures. I was surprised to see how well Eric could clean up. He was always so terrible as a child, that one." She tsked at a photo of Cartman stuffing his fat face with cake. "Even now he's still causing a ruckus around town. The fact that they let him become a police officer is just ridiculous."

Craig watched as Sheila thumbed through a couple more pages filled with pictures from Kenny and Wendy's modest backyard wedding. He'd gotten his very own copies of them sent to him from Wendy as well, except his came with a scathing note written on the back of the group photo where, in what was originally meant to be his spot next to Kenny, stood Stan Marsh.

"Their daughter was just the most _adorable_ little flower girl. Gosh, I wish I could remember her name."

"Isabelle."

"Isabelle! That's right."

Craig couldn't wait for this cruel and unusual punishment to end.

"Oh! How did I miss this one?" Sheila folded the album backwards and jutted it towards Craig, showing off a single picture of Kyle and Stan that took up the whole page; a prom photo, judging by the cheesy pastel-colored balloons that seemed more appropriate for a child's birthday party rather than a semi-formal dance. If Craig looked close enough he could see the school gymnasium where the background curtain hung just a bit too low.

"The both of you were so handsome," Sheila said, looking at the picture as if she were basking in her own nostalgia. "And look at you, all dressed up in your little tux! Your suit jacket was just a smidgen too big, but that's alright."

Craig didn't say anything as he stared at the way Stan's arm was slung around Kyle's shoulders, pulling him close. It was the first picture Craig had seen so far where the two of them actually looked _together._ Kyle's nervous smile as he half-heartedly tried to push Stan away with a hand on his chest made an unsettling feeling sink into Craig's gut, and any fleeting sense of belonging that he might've felt earlier was instantly washed away. Because none of this—the kisses, the food, the pictures—was meant for him. It was meant for _Stan_. He was nothing more than a temporary replacement.

"It's amazing to see just how much the two of you have grown. You've both become such fine young men," Sheila continued. She glanced up at Craig with a wistful smile. "And I really like what you've done with your hair. It's very stylish!"

Craig froze at the realization that he didn't fix his hair before coming over. Shit. He hadn't even _thought_ about doing that. "Thanks," he mumbled, shifting so that Sheila wasn't looking directly at him anymore. He thought he was in the clear when she turned her attention back to the picture, but then she quickly glanced back up at him, this time longer and with a slight crease in her brow.

"How come—"

"I should really get going," Craig said, racking his brain for a viable excuse to get the hell out of there without seeming too suspicious. He held up the insulin. "Kyle's probably waiting for me."

"Oh, I completely forgot about that!" Sheila said, closing the photo album. "I'm so sorry for keeping you. Hurry and get those into a fridge, alright? I know they say it's fine to leave them out but I don't like to take chances."

Craig turned to leave but Sheila stopped him.

"Thank you for taking such good care of Kyle."

"Sure."

"I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful man for him to be married off to. I'm so proud to call you my son-in-law," she continued, then cupped his cheeks. "You're going to make such a wonderful husband!"

Craig wanted to puke.

"And one more thing," Sheila said. Craig wondered if he'd ever actually be able to leave. "Tell Kyle that I need to speak with the two of you about Rabbi Manowitz; maybe tomorrow over brunch? I'll send you both a text message with the details later today."

And with that she finally released him from the confines of his own personal hell.

* * *

"Dammit!"

Everything on the passenger seat went flying to the floor as Craig slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light. The driver behind him blared their horn, shouting obscenities from their rolled-down window. Craig groaned and held his head; he just wanted to get home already.

The second Craig had escaped from the suffocating warmth of the Broflovski house it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. He needed to get as far away as possible before Sheila decided that she had "just one more thing" to tell him, and not even Ike's questioning glare as he pulled into the driveway could deter Craig from darting down the lawn to his car.

Craig had been _so stupid_ to think that going over there alone was a good idea. Seriously, what the hell did he expect would happen? What was he thinking? _Was_ he even thinking? He should've just ran back to the apartment and grabbed Kyle; that way he could've waited outside in the car instead of being forced to eat weird shit and look through a bunch of dumb fucking pictures for twenty minutes. _God,_ was he an idiot.

Craig's mental self-flagellation was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. Expecting it to be Kyle returning his calls from earlier, he made the mistake of answering without checking the caller ID.

"Yo, Fucker!"

Craig sighed. "That wasn't funny when we were kids and it's not funny now."

"Pfft." Kenny snorted. _"Someone's_ got a stick up their ass."

"I'm really not in the mood to deal with your shit right now, okay? My head hurts, I'm tired, I'm irritated—"

"You're _always_ irritated."

"Can I call you back later?"

"Hold on, I just wanted to ask you something," Kenny said. "You still got all that magic movie editing stuff, right?"

"Yeah. Why."

"Wendy's birthday is comin' up and I'm fuckin' broke as hell since I can't work right now, but I was thinking since I got a whole lotta home videos and shit that I could put together some kinda, like, you know. Movie thing."

"'Movie thing.'"

"You know what I'm talking about," Kenny said. "I wanted to know if you'd do it for me if I sent you everything. Mostly just a bunch of videos of Izzy, really."

Craig cradled his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he went to pop a couple Tylenol. He considered Kenny's request. "I'm pretty sure the last thing Wendy wants is anything from me," he said.

"She doesn't need to know you made it."

"I really don't think—"

"_C'mon,_ man." Kenny pressed. "You _owe_ me."

"Fine, I'll do it," Craig said as he thought about the wedding photos. "How's Izzy?"

"She's alright. Got over her cold, finally. You missed her birthday."

"Shit." Craig felt like an asshole. He'd been so busy dealing with Kyle's bullshit the past few weeks that he'd completely forgotten about his goddaughter's birthday. "Tell her I'll make it up to her."

"You've got a lot of making up to do for a lot of people, don't you, Tucker?"

When Craig finally pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex, the first thing he noticed was the PCPD squad car taking up three spaces near the main complex walkway. He squinted at it as he parked in his usual spot in front of the community dumpster.

"Hey, I'll talk to you later."

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just—something came up. I gotta go," Craig said, then hung up before Kenny could say another word. He gathered everything from the floor of his car and dumped it into an empty plastic bag from the back seat, grabbed the insulin from the cup holder, and got out.

Usually under no circumstances would Craig ever be caught dead pacing it across the parking lot as if he were about to be late to get into his own apartment, but something wasn't right. What were the cops doing there? Not that it was unusual for them to be there or anything—his downstairs neighbors were always getting citations for noise complaints—but this early? It wasn't even _noon_ yet. Not to mention that Craig had pretty much memorized the license plate of every PCPD squad car that ever rolled through there, but he couldn't remember ever seeing this one before.

Well, no. He'd definitely seen it around. It was one of newer squad cars; a black and white Ford Explorer, one of the only two SUVs that the Park County Police Department had somehow miraculously managed to squeeze into its fleet despite their severely limited budget. Knowing Cartman, Craig wouldn't be surprised if he had something to—

Oh, fuck.

Craig broke into a sprint as he headed for the stairs. He couldn't remember the last time he ran without the threat of someone or something chasing him, and by the time he climbed four steps he was already winded. His legs felt like wet noodles, as if he'd just finished running his first ever 5K and his knees were on the verge of buckling any moment now. No doubt he'd be sore tomorrow.

Craig didn't know whether to be worried or relieved at the lack of shouting or the sound of things _not_ breaking violently as he approached his apartment. What was going on in there? There was no way that Kyle and Cartman could be in the same vicinity without being at each other's throats—unless they'd already managed to kill each other or something. Craig had mixed feelings about that. Even though they hadn't been meant for him, Sheila's words kept playing over and over in Craig's head: "Thank you for taking such good care of Kyle." Craig would've scoffed if he weren't too busy trying not to die from oxygen deprivation. That lady had no fucking clue the shit he went through for her pain in the ass son.

When Craig finally threw open his front door he was greeted with an unexpected sight. "Oh. Heya, Craig!"

"Butters?" Craig asked, breathless. He glanced around the room to see where Butters' psychotic partner was but only saw Kyle sitting at the kitchen counter looking bored. "Where's Cartman?"

"Awe, Eric's busy takin' care of a few hoods that were gettin' booked down at the precinct so it's just me," Butters said. Standing at 5'6 with hair that was unnaturally blond for a grown adult male, Butters was not someone that most people would consider intimidating—or at least that used to be the case until he joined the Marines right out of high school. The military had been good to him; bulked him up, taught him to dress sharp and look tough, even gave him some confidence and a bit of a backbone. Too bad the illusion was completely decimated whenever Butters opened his mouth.

"What are you doing here?"

"Apparently someone called the cops," Kyle offered.

"We got a call about a domestic dispute from one of your neighbors and boy did they sound really concerned. Said they thought someone mighta been gettin' hurt real bad, or uh. Well." Butters mashed his knuckles together. "You know."

"What?" Craig asked.

"I already explained everything to him," Kyle said.

"Yeah. Sorry to hear about that, by the way. Those raccoons can be slippery little fellas!"

"Right." Craig wasn't sure if he wanted to know what Kyle had told him.

Everyone's attention snapped to Butters when static erupted from the walkie on his shoulder before a woman's voice replaced it. He responded to let them know he was on his way. "Well, looks like I gotta go," he said as he adjusted his belt. "It was really nice seein' you again, Kyle! Don't forget to send me an invitation, okay? Oh, and you too, Craig! Hope you find your wallet!"

Craig waited until Butters was gone before turning to Kyle. "My wallet?"

"Please don't ask," Kyle said, sounding agitated. Craig left it alone and walked over to the kitchen, dumping everything out of the bag and onto the counter. "What took you so long? Thanks to you I was stuck here listening to him alone for like, forty minutes. I couldn't get him to leave, all he wanted to do was talk."

"Well maybe if you actually answered your phone when I called."

"You called? I think my phone might be broken. I can't get the screen to turn on." Kyle motioned toward his phone that was pushed to the side. He furrowed his brows when he noticed the tupperware containers. "Did those come from my house?"

"Pharmacy said you already picked up your insulin so I went over to your place to get it and your mom basically held me hostage in the kitchen for fucking ever," Craig said, sliding the insulin across the counter to Kyle. "I brought both just to be safe. Hope that's alright."

"That's fine. One's just a spare but it's always good to have it around," Kyle said. "Sorry for making you have to go through all that. I really do appreciate it, though. Thanks."

"Whatever," Craig said. He went to leave but Kyle stopped him before he could even step foot out of that tiny kitchen.

"I forgot to give this to you," Kyle said as he reached for something on the seat next to him. He held up a dark navy blue military cap, not unlike the one that Craig had taken a liking to until he learned whose it was. "I found it at the mall the other day when I went with Clyde. Thought you might want it since you seemed to like the other one." He shrugged. "Here, try it on."

Craig took it with a skeptical brow but did as he was told.

"How's it fit?"

"Fine."

"Oh, good. I was kinda worried since I got it a size smaller. Didn't know if it'd be too tight." Kyle rested his head against his fist as he examined Craig curiously. "You know, I honestly think you look better without a hat, but that's just my opinion. It still suits you, though."

Craig took the hat off and tossed it aside. He didn't know what had brought about Kyle's sudden change in attitude from earlier, nor did he want to. All Craig wanted to do was seal himself away someplace where he could sleep off his pounding headache alone and in peace—maybe Clyde's room until he got back from work. With a sigh, he picked up the bottle of Tylenol and read the instructions on the back.

"You okay?"

"My head hurts."

"You take anything for it?"

Craig gave the bottle a shake. "Took two about an hour ago and another two probably twenty minutes ago. Still hasn't kicked in yet," he said.

"Let me see that," Kyle said, reaching over the counter to snatch the bottle from Craig's hand. "I don't think you're supposed to take four all together like that. Yeah, see? 'No more than two caplets every six hours.'"

"My head hurts," Craig said again.

"Better to have a headache than kidney failure. Trust me," Kyle told him. He hopped down from his seat and joined Craig on the other side of the counter. Craig eyed him warily. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Your headache, you idiot. Where does it hurt."

Craig prickled. "Why does it matter?" he asked defensively. His only answer was an eye roll and an exasperated "Come here," before he was suddenly tugged down to better accommodate Kyle's height. "Hey—!"

"Oh, shut up. I'm trying to help you," Kyle snapped. Craig did not believe that. He tried to pull out of Kyle's hold by straightening his back but Kyle had a firm grasp on his head and wouldn't let him up. Kyle, in the midst of Craig's struggling, began working his fingers in small, tight circles at the back of his head. "Does that feel better?"

"No. Now get the fuck off me before I—" Craig began to complain but faltered when Kyle's fingers slid further down to massage around the base of his skull. He shuddered.

"Is this where it hurts?"

"...Not really."

Kyle rubbed his thumbs just above Craig's ears. "Here?"

Craig didn't answer with words so much as actions as he subconsciously dropped his shoulders and breathed out a soft sigh through his nose. For the first time since he woke up that morning, Craig finally had some relief from the splitting headache that had him considering smashing his head against a wall more than once, and he wasn't even sure if he could form a coherent response if he wanted to. He was burnt out, completely drained; the day hadn't even started yet and he was already done with it. The pressure from Kyle's fingertips pressing against his scalp felt so nice that Craig was even willing to ignore it when Kyle hummed knowingly.

A lot sooner than Craig would have preferred, Kyle let up. He began carding his fingers through Craig's hair seemingly without purpose instead. "Holy shit, dude. Your hair's soft as hell," he said, clearly amused as he messed with it. "Do you put anything in it?"

"My head still hurts."

"And what am I supposed to do about that?"

"Don't stop."

The world around him came to a grinding halt the second Craig realized what he'd so thoughtlessly said. He regretted it immediately. He'd let himself get too comfortable, his words coming out too soft, too honest, and now he could only stand there like a fool under Kyle's touch as he waited for Kyle to come back with some sort of excessively snarky reply. Kyle shook his head and laughed.

"You're ridiculous. You know that?" was all that he said before adhering to Craig's demands.


	13. Chapter 13

Kyle watched as Craig made his way back to the table with their orders in hand: a small black coffee, a bottle of water, a blueberry muffin, and a turkey and Swiss wrap. Directly across from Kyle sat his mother, who was looking around the small shop with intrigue as she sipped at her own iced tea. Even for being the only coffee shop left in town, Tweek Bros still seemed unusually busy as people steadily filtered in and out, ready to start their day.

"I haven't been here in so long. It looks much nicer now," Sheila mused while examining the wall hangings. Craig took his seat next to Kyle and passed him his water and his turkey wrap. Sheila, taking notice of Craig's drink, made a face. "You're not really going to drink that, are you?"

"Nobody would be here if their coffee still tasted like sewage, Ma," Kyle said, not even wanting to try to explain to her that Craig had only bought it for the smell. His mother seemed suspicious of Craig enough as it was; he wasn't about to go and give her another reason to eye him like she'd already been doing since they'd arrived fifteen minutes ago. "Anyway, what were you talking about before Stan left?"

Kyle waited as his mother took a sip of tea. It would've been nice if Craig had remembered to let him know that he'd apparently made plans with his mother yesterday instead of having to learn about it from a very frustrated Stan calling Clyde's phone yesterday evening to get ahold of him, but he figured he couldn't really hold it against Craig since he'd fallen asleep shortly after getting back to the apartment. Still, it was a chore to have to come up with an excuse to bump their brunch date up to a breakfast one since Craig needed to be at the theater by 11:00 AM.

"I was saying that we might have a bit of a problem with officiating the ceremony," Sheila said.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Well," she began, shooting Craig a sobering look, "Stan's not Jewish."

"Shocking."

"Don't get smart with me, Kyle. You know our Temple's policy on interfaith marriage. This is serious!" she scolded. "Rabbi Schwartz might've been willing to perform the ceremony, but Rabbi Manowitz? I really don't know. He's been quite clear that he's not too keen on the idea even though Schwartz had already agreed to do it before he passed—God rest his soul."

Kyle shrugged. "Stan's parents already talked to Father Maxi about having him perform the ceremony so that's one less thing to worry about," he said. "Anyway, it's not like we _have_ to have a Jewish wedding."

"What? Kyle, don't be ridiculous. Of course you do."

"No, Ma. We really don't."

"Why are you so ashamed of your heritage?"

"I'm not—" Kyle closed his eyes and sighed. He rubbed his temples. "For the last time, Ma, I'm not _ashamed_ of anything. I'm just—we already have enough to worry about, okay? I mean for fuck's sake, we haven't even figured out what we're doing for catering yet."

"Watch your mouth, young man!"

"Ma—"

"Is that true, Stanley? You really haven't booked a caterer yet?" Sheila asked, ignoring her son. Craig said nothing. "What on Earth have the two of you been doing these past few weeks? That should've been taken care of months ago!"

Kyle crossed his arms and sank down in his seat. "Like I don't know that already," he mumbled as he watched a couple sitting two tables away, chatting cheerfully over their scones and hot coffee. He looked over at Craig who was staring down at his own steaming cup as if he were lost in thought. Craig had been eerily quiet and distant all morning, even more so than usual as he pointedly avoided taking part in their conversation and shifting uncomfortably whenever Sheila would look in his general direction for more than a second. From the way that he was hunched over his coffee, Kyle could just barely see a corner of that gaudy yellow bow tie peaking out from beneath his zipped up jacket.

They never did talk about what happened yesterday. After Craig had quarantined himself off in Clyde's room, Kyle spent the rest of the day responding to work emails and watching reruns of _Law &amp; Order_ until Clyde came home and the two of them took Charlie for a walk down to the convenience store to grab some snacks. Even when Kyle returned to find Craig half-awake and poking around at the leftovers his mother had sent back with him, neither of them said a single word to each other—which was fine, because what _was_ there to say? What happened had been nothing more than an accident, a mistake made in the spur of the moment, and there really was nothing to discuss.

Except that was only half true; it hadn't been an accident. But it wasn't exactly premeditated either, okay? It's not like Kyle had woken up that morning with the sole intention of pissing Craig off and being hate-fucked into a door or anything. Seriously, Kyle could've thought of at least a hundred different things that would've been more enjoyable than being manhandled by Craig "charm-of-a-crumpled-paper-bag" Tucker; but he'd be lying if he said that being ignored, lied to, and hung up on—on top of everything else—didn't make him feel just the teeniest bit, well, vindictive.

So what if Kyle had sex with Craig out of spite? He wasn't the one in the wrong here. Stan's the one who insisted that they see other people; and clearly he was making good on that suggestion since he apparently had strange men answering his phone for him now. But that was alright, Kyle thought, because if Stan wanted to see other people then he'd just go ahead and do the same. Except Kyle wasn't actually seeing Craig, because ew, no, that's just gross.

"Honestly, I don't know _what_ you boys are going to do now. You've only got, what, five weeks until the wedding? Four? You're nearly out of time." Sheila tsked. She watched as her son picked at his turkey wrap with disinterest and frowned. "Kyle, you seem tired. Have you been eating alright?"

"I'm _fine,_ Ma."

"I'm just making sure, sweetie. Lord knows you probably aren't getting the right nutrition being stuck in that hotel all day, and you know you've got to be careful with what you eat!"

"Why?" Craig asked.

Sheila gave him a look. "Because of his diabetes, of course," she said slowly, clearly skeptical of Craig's sudden interest. She squinted. "Haven't you been using the cookbooks I sent you?"

"What cook—"

"The ones we use all the time, Stan," Kyle interrupted, because he was not about to sit there and let Craig blow his own cover like an idiot on top of getting him chewed out for never actually having touched the cookbooks. "You almost broke your toe when the one dropped on it, remember?"

"Honestly, Kyle, why don't you just come stay at the house? You'd be much more comfortable," Sheila said, turning back to her son. "You won't have to eat out every night, you'll have a place to do your laundry, and you know, it'd really just be the three of us most of the time since your father works and Ike's got himself a job working reception at Hell's Pass for the summer."

"Thanks, but really. We're alright at the hotel."

"Oh, come on. I know you're both doing well for yourselves in Vermont—"

"New York."

"But there's no way you can afford to keep paying for a room every night! Now I think two weeks was more than enough time for the two of you to have to yourselves, but now it's time for you to stop being so stubborn and come home."

The sound of a ceramic mug shattering stole Kyle of his rebuttal and seemed to bring the whole shop to a momentary standstill. He looked past his mother to see Tweek rushing around the front counter with a filthy green rag in hand while a large, imposing man stood off to the side and yelled, "I said I wanted it to go, dumbass!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Tweek shouted frantically as he scrambled to pick up the pieces of the broken mug while wiping up the spilled coffee at the same time, only making an even bigger mess. The man scoffed and swiped someone else's forgotten to-go order from the counter instead.

"Yeah? Well maybe—aw, goddammit! Look what you did, you fuckin' spaz," he complained as he examined his pant leg. "What the hell's your problem? Don't you have any respect for the law?"

"It was an accident, I swear!"

"It better have been, you little—"

"Ah! Don't hit me, don't hit me!"

"Jesus Christ," Kyle muttered as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. As if he couldn't have figured out who the man was just by his loud, obnoxious voice alone, Kyle's fears were confirmed when he got a good look at the man's side profile when he went to reach for something on his belt. "Is Cartman always such an asshole to Tweek?"

Kyle's attention snapped over to Craig when he heard the chair next to him drag sharply across the floor. Craig was in the middle of getting up from his seat. "Are you out of your mind? Sit down!" Kyle whisper-shouted, grabbing him by the arm. Craig's hard, steely eyes were focused on the two at the front.

"Kyle?"

Dread set in as Kyle turned back to find Cartman looking directly at him. His stomach dropped when he noticed how Cartman's eyes began to light up with curiosity and amusement, as if he'd finally found what he'd been searching for and more. He licked his lips and sidestepped the mess on the floor, forgetting about Tweek and heading for the table instead. "Holy shit," he said as he mosied over to them. "Butters wasn't kidding."

"Go away, Cartman."

"What, I'm not allowed to say hi to an old friend?" Cartman asked innocently. He took a sip from the coffee he stole and made a face. "Fuckin' gross. Who actually ordered this shit?" he grumbled, but took another sip anyway. When Kyle continued to just stare at him, he pointed to his badge, which seemed to glint with a sort of malicious intent even under the dim lighting of the coffee shop. "Not sure if you heard yet, but I'm the new sheriff around here, so. Might wanna watch how you talk to me."

"That's funny, because your badge says 'officer.'"

"Yeah, 'cause they're making me a special sheriff's badge. This one's only temporary."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up. What are you even doing back here? Too many Jews in New York for you to stand out?" Cartman snapped. "Can't really say that I'm surprised. Just didn't expect for you to come crawling back so soon. Then again that's what you get for bragging so much at Kenny's wedding last year."

"You mean the one you went to just so you could hit on Wendy and eat everything?"

"Yeah right, as if I'd ever hit on that fuckin' bitch. Kenny's lost his goddamn mind," he said. "Of all the dumb chicks he could've knocked up he picked the craziest one to stick his dick in. Should've aborted the little monster when he still had the chance."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "What do you even want, Cartman?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you and your mom weren't getting your jewiness all over the place," he said with a petulant shrug. He frowned when his eyes finally skimmed over to Craig. "The fuck? What are you doing here?"

"Cartman—"

"Wait, are you two together? When the hell did this happen?" Cartman asked incredulously. "I mean, I always knew you were a fag, but Jesus Christ. You're seriously throwing it in this ginger twink?"

"That's enough, Eric," Sheila said. She began to gather up her things. "Kyle, Stanley, let's go."

"Stanley? Lady, I know it's hard to see with that big Jew nose of yours in the way and all, but—_ey!_ What the hell do you think you're doing!" Cartman shouted when he found himself suddenly being dragged away from the table.

"Just shut up and come here," Kyle ordered as he pulled Cartman by the sleeve of his uniform through the maze of tables until he found a quiet spot away from prying eyes around the corner near the bathroom. He shoved Cartman into the wall, earning him a grunt and a complaint of, "The fuck was that for!"

"You _know_ what, fatass," Kyle told him.

"You're lucky I didn't spill this or else you'd be paying for my dry cleaning. And what? She _does_ have a big Jew nose," Cartman said. Kyle stared at him. Cartman heaved a sigh. "Look, I dunno who pissed in your gefilte fish this morning but I'm not a fuckin' mind reader, okay? So just tell me what's up your ass already—besides Craig."

"There's nothing up my ass!"

"Where's your sissy limp-wrist boyfriend at, anyway? Or did you finally break up with that tree-hugging hippie?" Cartman asked as he straightened his uniform. "I thought you guys were supposed to be getting married."

"We _are. _He just had to stay back a little while longer for work. He'll be here soon, though."

"And in the meantime you're just sucking Craig's dick to quench your uncontrollable thirst for cock?" Cartman asked. Kyle opened his mouth to protest but Cartman spoke over him. "Seriously, the fuck are you even doing with that asshole? And why does your mom think he's Stan?"

"That's none of your fucking business, Cartman," Kyle spat.

"Uh, actually? It kind of totally _is_ my business." Cartman gestured to himself. "You might think so, but identity theft is not a joke, Kyle—and I happen to take my job very, very seriously."

Kyle folded his arms across his chest and forced a laugh. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do? Write me a ticket? Whisk me off to jail?"

"Nah." Cartman shrugged. "Probably just tell your mom."

Kyle wasn't laughing anymore. He watched Cartman through slitted eyes, his skin crawling as Cartman's lips curved upwards into that devilish, calculating smirk he hadn't seen since they were teens but could still imagine just as well whenever he read through those debased letters Cartman would send him during the holidays. He wasn't sure exactly just how far Cartman had gotten in piecing together the situation, but he wasn't about to chance it, either.

"What do you want."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said what do you _want,_ Cartman."

"Whoa, whoa! Who said I wanted anything? Ah, but wait a minute." Cartman rubbed at his chin—no longer the massive double-chin he'd had when they were kids thanks to his added height and somewhat-better eating habits, though it still very much _was_ a double-chin, and quite noticeable thanks to his neck pouring over the too-tight collar of his buttoned-up shirt. "Hmm. Yes," he mused. "I suppose that, maybe… well, perhaps there is _something."_

"Spit it out, fatass! I don't have all day!"

"One-hundred thousand dollars."

_"What?"_

"You heard me," Cartman said. "One-hundred thousand dollars and I'll keep my mouth shut. That way you can go back to playing your little fucked up game of house or whatever it is you're doing with Craig and your mother will be none the wiser. I'd say it's a win-win, Kyle. What do you say?"

Kyle went to leave.

"Okay, okay, fine!" Cartman said, grabbing Kyle. "Ten-thousand, but that's as low as I'll go."

Kyle tore his arm out of Cartman's hold. "I don't _have_ ten-thousand dollars, Cartman!" he snapped.

"Yeah, and the holocaust really happened." Cartman scoffed. "You don't seriously expect me to believe that, do you? Ten-thousand bucks is like chump change to you bigshot New York Jew lawyers."

"No it's not!" Kyle nearly shouted, because ten-thousand dollars was definitely _not_ chump change; that was almost two months of his and Stan's rent, food, and utilities combined, and contrary to popular belief among Kyle's family and friends, _he wasn't rich._ Manhattan was not a cheap place to live by any means; between having to worry about transportation costs, living expenses, and fucking _taxes out the ass,_ Kyle hardly had enough leftover by the end of the month to make a sizeable contribution to his and Stan's joint-savings account so that they'd someday achieve their—well, mostly _his—_dream of owning their own cozy little townhouse in West Village. Sure, they could always cut corners or save a great deal alone if they'd just downsize to a smaller apartment in a different part of town, but Kyle had since grown fond of his comfortable lifestyle and the view from their living room, and he wasn't exactly willing to give that all up.

"And the holocaust did happen, you idiot! You need to stop saying stupid shit like that! It's not funny!"

"Like I said, Kyle. Ten-thousand dollars and it'll be like this conversation never happened."

"How about you go fuck yourself," Kyle suggested, then turned to leave again. Behind him, Cartman cleared his throat before singing, "Oh, Mrs. Broflovski!" at the top of his lungs, so loud that it reverberated off the walls and slithered down Kyle's spine. Kyle whipped back around, clenched a hand over Cartman's mouth and hissed, "Fine, I'll give you what you want!"

Cartman gingerly pushed Kyle's hand away and grinned. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement," he purred. Kyle did not share his sentiment.

"What do you even need ten-thousand dollars for, anyway? And why the hell are you in South Park? Don't you live in Denver?" Kyle asked, because last time he checked, Cartman had graduated with an MBA from the University of Colorado's business school and was tearing the financial sector of the Southwest United States apart from the seat of his cushy management position at some big-name holding company; so why Cartman was prancing around South Park pretending to be a cop was beyond him.

"That's the thing—I don't." Cartman smiled pleasantly and cocked his head to the side, the way he used to just before launching into one of his villainesque monologues. "You see, Kyle, money and wealth are easy to come by. I've certainly made my fair share and have amassed quite a nice little fortune for myself in the short amount of time since I've graduated—climbing the corporate ladder was like a hot knife through butter, especially when you consider just how stupid most people truly are—but I've grown _bored,_ Kyle. I no longer have a real interest in the material pleasures that this world has to offer. No," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "What I want now, is power."

"Power," Kyle repeated bluntly, unable to to process just how stupid Cartman could possibly be. "You give up your job in Denver to come back to South Park, become a cop on one of the most incompetent police forces in the country, and extort me out of ten-thousand dollars because you want _power."_

"Oh, no, the extorting you out of ten-thousand dollars part is just for fun," Cartman said. "And you know I like a challenge. Becoming the chief of police would be too easy if I'd have stayed in Denver."

Kyle opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to come up with some sort of response to such a ridiculous plan but nothing would come out. He threw his hands up in defeat. "You know what? Whatever, Cartman. I don't care," he finally conceded, irritated. "Just—give me some time, alright? Like a few weeks or something. All of my money's kind of tied up right now and there's no way I could just hand over that much without—" He caught himself. "Seeming suspicious."

"Perhaps we can discuss the option of bi-monthly payments if that's agreeable to you?" Cartman asked genially. Kyle glared at him. "Splendid. Well then, I guess that's that. You can leave, now. Oh, and Kyle, don't worry about keeping in touch. I'll have my people call you," Cartman said, then gave him an assertive nod goodbye before pushing past and disappearing into the restroom, taking his coffee with him. Kyle had to resist charging in after him and punching him in the face.

Craig was alone when Kyle got back to the table. His eyes were glued to his phone as he sat there, idly playing his muted game of Temple Run as if nothing else around him mattered. Kyle would have been unjustifiably angry at Craig's blissful ignorance if he weren't too busy seething over his current predicament.

Craig looked up once Kyle was close enough to cast a shadow. "What the hell was all that about?" he asked.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. Where's my mom?"

Craig stood and pocketed his phone. The slight crease in his brow deepened, betraying his otherwise disinterested demeanor. "She left. Said she had to get to the farmer's market before everyone else did. She told me to give you this." Craig handed Kyle a small slip of paper. Written on it was a phone number and the address for South Park's only synagogue.

Kyle groaned and cursed. Why couldn't his mother just leave well enough alone? "She's out of her mind if she thinks I'm actually gonna call this guy. I told her it's not that big of a deal," he said, then crumpled it in his palm.

"I think she's onto me," Craig interjected.

"What? No. Unless you slipped up and said something stupid, I doubt it."

"She said that Stan's parents have been asking about him, wondering why the two of you haven't visited them yet."

Kyle gave Craig a look. "Oh, God," he muttered. "What did you say."

"Nothing. She got a phone call and left before I had the chance."

Kyle was relieved. "Good, because the last few times you've opened your mouth she almost _did_ figure you out. God forbid if I actually left you alone with her for more than five minutes. Who knows what kind of irreparable damage you'd do."

Craig shifted awkwardly. He had nothing to say in response to Kyle's snippy remarks—which, when Kyle thought about it, really wasn't all that strange since Craig usually tended to just blatantly ignore them for the most part—but Craig didn't even seem the least bit bothered by them, instead choosing to respond with a flat, "You seem tense."

"Of course I'm fucking tense. You'd be tense too if you had to deal with half the shit that I do."

"Is everything alright?"

"No, everything's not alright!" Kyle exploded. People around them hushed and turned their heads. "Stan's being a dick, my mom's trying to dictate who marries us, I _still_ haven't gone and checked out the wedding hall in Denver, my whole summer vacation that I had to practically _beg_ my boss to have off is being spent playing Xbox with Clyde fucking Donovan, and now Cartman's trying to fucking screw me out of ten-thousand dollars!"

"What?"

"What!"

"What do you mean Cartman's screwing you out of ten-thousand dollars?" Craig asked. "Is that what you guys were talking about? What'd he say?"

Kyle heaved a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "I said it was nothing. Don't worry about it," he said, folding his arms. He was suddenly very aware of everyone watching him. "I just wanna get out of here."

"Where's he at?"

"I dunno. Bathroom, I guess. Who cares? Can we just go already?"

"I need to talk to Tweek."

"You couldn't have done that earlier?" Kyle complained. "Fine, whatever. Just hurry up."

"I'll meet you outside."

"I can wait."

"I said I'll meet you outside."

Kyle's brows shot up. "Excuse me?" he asked, but Craig's extent of an explanation was simply tossing Kyle his keys and ordering Kyle to "go start the car," and that he'd "be out in a minute." Kyle wasn't sure where exactly Craig got off telling him what to do, but he did so anyway when Craig brushed past him to chat up Tweek at the counter; not because Craig had told him to, but because waiting in the car sounded a whole lot better than having to potentially see Cartman again.

The parking lot was a little less packed since they'd originally pulled in, and the last of the coolness leftover from the morning air was quickly giving way to warmer weather with the sun now high up in the sky. Kyle, enjoying the heat and open space in comparison to the congested streets of Manhattan, started the car and stood outside, leaning against the passenger side door with his eyes shut and his head thrown back, basking in the sunlight as if he were a cat. He did this for only about a minute though, before growing impatient and craning his neck to get a look inside Tweek Bros to see what the hell was taking Craig so long, but it was hard to see with the glare reflecting off the massive floor-to-ceiling windows from his angle.

One minute turned to two, which turned to three, and Kyle soon started to wonder if Craig had perhaps forgotten that he did in fact have to work today. Kyle would've been content to stand outside for an eternity if he could waste time scrolling through his Facebook news feed, but his phone was very much broken and sitting on the counter back at Craig's apartment, and kicking pebbles around a parking lot could only keep him occupied for so long. Bored out of his skull, he succumbed to cleaning the trash out of Craig's car to keep himself busy and to not have to think about just how much of a nightmare this wedding was turning out to be.

While Kyle was en route to dump the armful of water bottles and fast food wrappers that he'd gathered from the backseat into the trash, he noticed the door to Tweek Bros swing open forcefully out of his peripheral vision, the little bell that hung above it clanging violently. He turned in time to see Craig walking towards the car, his gait a bit quicker and seemingly more determined than usual. Kyle began to say something but Craig completely bypassed Kyle's attempt to grab his attention and got into the car without so much as looking at him. Kyle, more curious to know what had gotten into Craig all of a sudden more than anything, made short work of the garbage and went around to slide into the passenger seat.

"Did you forget you work today?" Kyle asked as he buckled his seatbelt.

"No."

"Well you certainly took your sweet time like you did," he said, not amused with Craig's curt answer. He watched Craig as he promptly threw the car in reverse and backed out of their parking space and was only mildly annoyed that Craig didn't seem to notice that his car was considerably cleaner. "What were you doing?"

"I said I had to talk to Tweek."

"About what?"

Craig looked at his radio clock. "I don't have enough time to drop you off at the apartment. You're gonna have to wait at the theater till lunch break or call Clyde to come pick you up," he said.

"And whose fault is that?"

"You can watch whatever movies you want. I don't care."

Kyle scowled. Even though the offer of free movies wasn't such a bad deal, it wasn't like he didn't have better things to do besides hang around a musty old theater and wait for Craig to take him home. Calling Clyde shouldn't have even been an option since the guy slept like a boulder and probably wouldn't be awake until late that afternoon since he'd stayed up all night playing Overwatch.

"Fine." Kyle eventually gave in, albeit reluctantly. "I wanna see _Zootopia."_

Craig nodded. "That's a good one."

"And the new Captain America movie, too," Kyle continued.

"Alright."

"And _Money Monster,_ and that new movie with Andy Samberg."

"Okay."

Kyle shot Craig a curious look. That was well beyond the four hours he needed to kill before Craig could take him back to the apartment, but Craig either wasn't paying attention or he just didn't care. "Free candy and unlimited soda refills, too?" Kyle pressed.

Craig glanced over at Kyle for the first time since leaving Tweek Bros. "Isn't that a lot of sugar?" he asked.

"I can manage my own sugar intake, Craig."

"Then yeah. Sure," Craig said dryly, then looked away.

Kyle continued to watch Craig after he turned his attention back to the road. Craig was being strangely compliant, even if he did seem to be a bit on edge, and Kyle didn't know whether or not to be worried that Craig's breathing had only just settled back to its usual calm and steady manner moments ago. Letting his gaze travel down, Kyle noticed that a part of Craig's bow tie, along with the collar of his white button-down shirt, was stained. "That looks like it's gonna be fun to get out," Kyle mused.

"What?"

"That." Kyle nodded to the stain when Craig glanced back at him. Craig, following Kyle's line of sight, looked down at himself. He frowned. "Suddenly get a craving for coffee and forgot how to drink or something?" Kyle joked.

"No."

"Then how'd that happen?"

Craig looked back out over the road. For a few seconds he didn't say anything, leading Kyle to believe that maybe Craig hadn't heard him, but after a short silence he finally answered, "Tweek."

The lack of regard in Craig's monotone voice didn't go unnoticed by Kyle. He wanted to ask if something was wrong, if the two of them had had a fight or something, but ultimately decided against it when Craig suddenly turned the radio up, because it was none of his business, after all, and Craig didn't seem like he really wanted to talk about it, either. Besides, it was probably for the best that he stayed out of Craig's personal matters.

* * *

Around the same time that Craig was heading to work, Stan was standing outside of Gary's apartment with a cheap bouquet of only slightly-wilted flowers that he'd purchased from the street vendor two blocks away.

"Gary, c'mon. Just listen to what I have to say, alright?" Stan pleaded. It'd been almost twenty-four hours since Gary had kicked him out after a heated argument brought on by an already suspicious Gary coming across a couple incriminating text messages from Kyle's mother when Stan had stupidly asked him to check his phone while he was busy making lunch, and all Stan wanted was for Gary to hear him out.

"C'mon, Gary. I'm practically begging you here. _Please."_

"I already told you, Stan. There's nothing else for us to talk about," Gary said cooly from the other side of the heavy apartment door, finally acknowledging Stan's existence after nearly twenty minutes of him standing outside in the hallway talking to himself like a lunatic.

"Yes there is!"

"Go away."

"Gary—"

"I said go away!"

"Five minutes," Stan pleaded. "Just—give me five minutes and I'll leave, alright? I swear."

Stan heard Gary sigh in defeat from inside the apartment. There was prolonged moment of silence before the door suddenly unlatched and Gary peeked out from the other side. He leaned against the doorframe with an impatiently perked brow. "Speak," he demanded.

Stan tried, but the words just wouldn't come out.

"Goodbye, Stan."

"Wait!" Stan shouted, nearly getting his fingers slammed in the door when he stuck his hand out to keep Gary from shutting him out again. The mixed look of anger and disappointment in Gary's eyes as he glared at him through the crack in the door sent a chill down Stan's spine. It almost felt like he was being stared down by an especially pissed off Kyle with how intense it was.

_Kyle._

"It's not what you think," Stan said, racing to get his thoughts out in the open before his allotted time was up. He hadn't actually prepared what he'd say on the short walk over from his own apartment; he knew that just getting Gary to answer the door would be a feat in and of itself. "I mean, it kind of is, but—look, okay, I know what it probably seems like, and I really don't blame you for being upset. But seriously, it's not like that, alright?"

"So you're telling me that Mrs. Broflovski just sent you that text about meeting up to talk about 'the wedding' by mistake? And the one asking you to have Kyle call her, too?"

"No, but—"

"Then just tell me the truth already. Are you and Kyle together or not?" Gary asked. Stan suddenly felt like he was going to be sick; this conversation was not going the way he had hoped it would. "Well? Which is it? It's a yes or no question, Stan."

"It's complicated."

"You know, you keep saying that but it really doesn't seem like it's all that complicated to me!"

"Yeah, well it is," Stan snapped defensively. He rolled his eyes with a scoff. He didn't need this right now. "Look, just forget it, alright? I'll go. I didn't expect for you to understand, anyway."

"What's there to understand? You're with Kyle! You're _engaged!"_

"I said it's complicated!"

"That's why you never let me come over to your place, isn't it?" Gary asked. Stan didn't answer. Gary forced a laugh. "God, I'm such an idiot—thinking that showing up and surprising you like this after all these years was actually a good idea. It was stupid of me to come here."

"What? No. That's not—Gary." Stan groaned. "You're not an idiot, dude. And it wasn't stupid, okay? I'm glad you came. It was awesome getting to see you again." He reached out to give Gary an awkward, reassuring pat on the shoulder, because it was true—he _was_ glad to see Gary. The last two weeks had been a lot of fun, breaking him out of his monotonous work-eat-sleep routine and getting to reconnect with his old friend instead.

Gary pulled away before Stan could touch him. "Don't," he demanded with a sharp edge to his voice that made Stan feel as if he'd been slapped across the face. "I don't need you to try and comfort me."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not going to fix this, Stan."

"I know."

Gary shook his head. "I just—I can't believe this." He sighed, letting his shoulders drop. Stan wished that Gary would just go back to ranting angrily instead of looking at him with such a disappointed expression. "Why?"

"Like I said. It's complicated," he mumbled for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Does Kyle know?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean—" Stan didn't know how to put his and Kyle's situation into words without being instantly disgusted with just the thought of them rolling off his tongue. Funny. It hadn't been that way before. "We had an arrangement."

"An arrangement?"

"We decided to take a sort of—break, before getting married. To have some time apart," he explained cautiously. "And like, we agreed it'd be okay if we saw other people? So—"

"So he _does_ know?"

"Not really? I mean, I never told him about—us, or anything," Stan admitted sheepishly. "But I'm pretty sure he knows I've been seeing someone since you, uh. Answered my phone the other day when I was sleeping. He's pretty quick," he said with a small, nervous chuckle.

"Gary did not find Stan's attempt at lightening the mood amusing at all. "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you've changed. The Stan I remember would have never done something like this," Gary said. Stan tried to argue but Gary wouldn't let him. "He was gentle, and caring, and he loved wide open spaces, and he never missed one of his best friend's basketball games, and—and didn't you want to go vet school? I thought you wanted to be a veterinarian._"_

"I still do!"

"Then what the hell are you doing working as a _banker?"_

Stan stood there in silence. He didn't know how to answer that despite it being a fairly straightforward question. Somewhere along the line between Kyle starting law school and moving out of the dorms and into their very own apartment, his depression had started to creep back up on him again and things just kind of got skewered. It was like the weight of everything had just decided to crash down on him all at once; the staunch realization that it was just the two of them now, that they weren't kids anymore, that this was for real. The crushing pressure of adulthood was no longer just a mythical notion looming overhead, and the cramped streets of New York City were really starting to take a toll on him—but Kyle had been working so fervently to turn his longtime dream of truly making a home out of the city into a reality that Stan just couldn't bring himself to let Kyle down, so he traded in his own dream of opening a vet clinic in a small town somewhere far away from the bustling city for an internship at Goldman Sachs instead.

But was that really what Kyle needed—someone to constantly be walking two steps behind him and looking over his shoulder when he was more than capable of taking care of himself? Or had Stan just been looking for an easy cop-out to help rationalize hiding behind Kyle and licking at his own wounds in complacency? He'd always told himself that he'd been doing it for Kyle's own good, but he really wasn't so sure about that anymore.

"I don't know," Stan said quietly as his thoughts began to drift to Kyle. He thought about their relationship that seemed to grow more and more damaged with each passing day. Things had been slowly becoming strained between them for a few years now, especially when it came to romance, but these past three weeks had brought things to a dangerously new low—and it was all his fault. He was ruining his own relationship. God, he felt like an asshole.

"Well I hope you figure it out," Gary said, then slammed the door shut without another word. Stan didn't try to stop him this time. He wasn't even upset. He dropped the flowers he'd been squeezing the life out of on the ground outside of Gary's apartment and, knowing that it was going to be a long next couple of nights, started off towards the nearest liquor store with his phone in hand, contacts at the ready.

He was going to make things right. He wasn't sure how, but he'd figure it out. He didn't have a choice. Kyle was the single-most important person in his life, had been there for him through thick and thin since they were kids, was his best friend for Christ's sake; and even if he didn't know what would ultimately happen to them in the end, he knew that Kyle meant more to him than anything and that he needed to fix what he'd fucked up.

But first he needed some advice—and a drink.

* * *

**A/N: **Let it be known that Stan is my favorite character ever and it physically pains me to put him in such a terrible situation, but he's shown time and time again throughout the show that even though he cares about Kyle, he can be really selfish and even a bit of a flake sometimes, on top of making some seriously terrible decisions, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ gg, Stan.


End file.
